


Dirty Paws

by movieholic



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Federal Agents, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Police, Alternating Between Past and Present, Angst, Author Plays Fast and Loose With Facts, Bipolar Emotions, Character Death, Daddy Issues, Drama, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Family Drama, Gen, Shameless Usage of Italics, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, Smoking, Smut, Swearing, Trust Issues, excessive use of punctuation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2020-09-26 02:03:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 31,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20381851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/movieholic/pseuds/movieholic
Summary: He worked with IAB. He killed his boss. He's a rat. Don't get too close to him. Just do your job.A/N: This will be completed, but please be patient in the meantime. Thank you!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Any mistakes found are my own.  
I do not own these beautiful characters.  
Ro_Nordmann surprised me with this absolutely fantastic banner! Thank you so much!  


**NOW:**

* * *

Brienne O'Tarth tugged at the tactical belt holding the majority of her gear around her waist. The flashlight on her left side jutted at an odd angle, digging into the flesh just above her hip. The strap that was _supposed_ to secure the light to her belt was frayed beyond repair, but her new Captain had greeted her with a chaste, one-pump handshake and a careless shrug at her well-worn issued gear.

“Budget's a little tight these days,” he had intoned without apology.

Thankfully, they _did_ have to dip a little into their spending pool to scrounge up a uniform. There weren't too many females of her particular body structure running around the Westeros Police Department these days.

_ If ever_, she snorted to herself.

She inhaled deeply, then took a step back from the mirror to survey her final look.

The short-sleeved button-up was a little snug around her broad shoulders, and black certainly didn't help her naturally blowsy complexion, but at least it fit. The utility belt sat high on her wide waist, fastened tightly against her body in fear of one of the straps snapping against the slightest of pressure and sending all of her gear to the ground. The flashlight dug a little harder into her side as a reminder.

She winced and tried to shift it away.

A pair of simple, black cargo pants tucked neatly into a pair of duty boots completed the uniform. The only flash of color came from the gold shield pinned over her left breast, and the nameplate bearing B. O'TARTH over her right. It was a downright intimidating, if not supremely boring, look. The damned King's Landing Division got to wear _maroon_.

_Elitists_.

She squared her shoulders and met her blue eyes in the mirror. "Officer O'Tarth," she announced to her ruddy-faced reflection. She shifted her stance and tried a deeper inflection in her voice. "Officer O'Tarth." She cleared her throat: "Officer _O'Tarth_.”

“O'_Tarth_,” a voice dripping with amusement drawled from behind her. “Not too bad, but I'd rather hear you say _my_ name.”

She hid her startle with a well-executed heel turn only to lose her composure when she came face-to-face with the most handsome man she had ever lay eyes on.

"This is the women's locker room," she ground out to cover her bout of nerves. She folded her arms across her rather flat bosom and arched a pale brow.

The human epitome of “chiseled jawline” simply grinned wider.

“Actually,” he pushed himself away from the locker he had been leaning against, “Casterly Rock is co-ed. Budget cuts and all that.”

_A well-rehearsed line, _that.

He also, she noticed, had a lit cigarette dangling from his thin lips. And who the hell said smoking didn't look cool? They've never seen this man do it.

Brienne flushed a deeper shade of red that she most assuredly knew she already was. To save face, she threw back her shoulders and motioned to the offending object hanging from his mouth with a jerk of her chin. "You can't smoke in here."

“So, stop me.”

His leonine eyes squinted against the rising smoke, then visibly raked over her entire form. He plucked the cigarette from his mouth with an audible, purposely emitted _pop_, then smirked. “You're big,” he conceded with a singular nod, “I'll grant you that. But I bet I could take you.”

She could feel her wide-lipped mouth opening and closing over a thousand different retorts. He exhaled another cloud of smoke through a small huff of laughter, before digging his thumb into the corner of his eye, the cigarette dangerously close to the fringe of his sandy blond hair.

He placed the cigarette back to his mouth, took a deep pull, then ground it out against the sole of his left boot. He pocketed the butt, then gave her form one more appraising pass-over with his eyes.

“Follow me, O'_Tarth_.”

She gave the smoke he emitted a moment to dissipate before following.

“Welcome to the Casterly Rock Division of Westeros PD.”

The locker room was situated a short distance from the bullpen.

_If one could call it that_.

It was just a room full of pushed together desks on their last legs. The space felt small enough as it was, but the presence of the entire CRD was crammed in what felt like every nook and cranny there was available. She met the eyes of Stannis Baratheon, their captain, and gave a curt nod.

_At least there's space for a coffee bar_.

Although, the gurgling noise the maker was putting out sounded less like the promise of a good cup of joe, and more like a slog of debris funneling through an engine.

Her tour guide grimaced at the offending object. “Damn it. It was Clegane's turn, wasn't it?”

“Keep my name outta your mouth,” the hulking, presumably Clegane, grunted from where he was leaning against the exposed brick wall.

“Keep your paws off the coffee pot then, dog,” the blond growled back. “Y'know, for someone who hates fire so much, you love to burn every last bit of coffee you ever make.”

Brienne managed to stifle her audible gasp at the pointed retort. The beast of a man, Clegane, was sporting half a head of melted flesh. Obviously, it was a sore point.

Clegane snorted in reply.

_Or_, Brienne thought in astonishment, _Obviously not_.

The stubbled blond offered her a toothy grin. “That, my lady, is Sandor Clegane. Any guesses as to why he's been placed in our lovely unit?”

Brienne ventured she'd have a few, but the three chevrons that indicated Clegane's rank as Sergeant had her biting her tongue in response. Her tour guide grabbed her elbow in a warm grip and turned her to face the rest of the crew. She wrestled her arm away, much to his amusement. He used the opportunity to gesture toward a long-haired brunet, also with three chevrons adorning both sleeves.

“That craggy-faced bastard is Sergeant Bronn Blackwater. He and Clegane typically run the show while Baratheon and Tully...Well, while they-” He cut himself off, and plastered a frown on his handsome mug. “What is it _exactly_ you two do around here?”

“Oh, here we go,” a voice muttered simultaneously as a gruff one snapped, “That's enough!”

_Lieutenant Brynden “Blackfish” Tully_, her mind supplied. He had been there when she interviewed with Captain Baratheon. Their reunion would clearly be postponed, as the older man dragged her self-anointed guide from the room, and effectively left it up to herself to continue introductions.

“Um, I'm Brienne O'Tarth. I just transferred from the Winterfell Division.”

A smooth-faced, pretty man with a mop of curly blond hair stepped forward and shook her hand eagerly. “I'm Loras Tyrell. If you ever need anything, let me know. I'd be more than happy to help.” Then he winked.

Blushing, Brienne had nodded dumbly, before she was suddenly set upon by two of the creepiest men she had ever met. They were both lanky, and relatively tall, with one sporting a sparse goatee outlining a thin-lipped smirk. The other had a long, jet-black goatee that she _knew_ was out of regulation.

“Petyr Baelish,” the smirk widened around the silkily supplied words, “A pleasure.” His handshake was limp and damp. Brienne resisted the urge to wipe her palm against her cargo pants.

“Hoat.” There was a trail of spit that followed the spat out word. He, thankfully, didn't offer his hand for a shake.

They were gone almost as quickly as they introduced themselves, although Brienne felt as though their eyes were boring into her back. She felt her left eye twitch as she fought against the urge to whip around and catch them in the act.

However, Bronn Blackwater stepped before her with a grin as smarmy as his hair was greasy. His handshake was clammy but pleasantly calloused, and the twinkle in his squinted blue eyes seemed genuine. "Welcome to the shit show," he crowed in delight. He used their still clasped hands to maneuver her into a slight spin, putting the two creepers in her line of vision. "That _thlobbering atthole_, Hoat, has a first name that none of us can figure out. He's never said it once, and we can't find his file anywhere in this damned building.”

“It probably starts with an 'S,'” Clegane muttered around his procured mug of coffee.

“Anyway, hundred bucks to the bastard that can figure it out. Oh, have you been introduced to our resident rookie? Podrick Payne!”

The demure young man shuffled over, and offered her a surprisingly firm handshake, before allowing himself to be manhandled into a one-armed stranglehold from Blackwater.

“We're all here for one reason or another,” Blackwater confided without much hint of a whisper. “Clegane is an unsightly beast, Baelish practically lives in a brothel, Hoat's a little handsy with perps of the female persuasion, Robin Arryn is off his fuckin' head-” And the baby-faced man looked still young enough to be suckling from his mother's teat. “Tyrell is a pillow-biter, don't let him try to tell you otherwise, and Jorah Mormont fucked his former boss or whatnot, though who hasn't,” he waggled his brows despite her disgusted frown, “Who else?” He snapped the fingers of his free hand, the one not attached to the arm wrapped around Podrick's neck. He gave that particular arm a shake. “What'd you do again?”

“Uh, the academy.”

“Ah, that's right. Weren't very good, were ya?”

Payne grimaced in embarrassment. “Flunked out twice.”

“_I'm_ a self-proclaimed debauched skirt chaser and part-time gambler.”

“And me?”

Brienne turned to watch as the beautiful blond strode across the room, and settled himself directly by her side. She felt purple from how flushed she was becoming. It wasn't often she could meet someone's gaze at their level, although he did seem to have a way of not holding hers for very long.

_Interesting_.

“You?” Bronn laughed heartily. “You're the worst of us all!”

The chiseled jaw clenched impossibly tighter.

“You're the fuckin' Kingslayer!”

The blond's nostrils flared a little at the nickname, but he schooled his expression well enough before fully turning to face Brienne again. He put his right hand out for a shake.

“Jaime Lannister. Your new partner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC...  
Please Review.


	2. Chapter 2

**THEN:**

* * *

Cersei reached up and splayed her hands on either side of Jaime's hanging head, framing his face. Her thumb brushed across a rough patch a skin, where an angry red scrape was visible, and she pressed into it. His mouth opened in a silent snarl, and he twisted his head to capture her finger in his mouth. He suckled the digit, although his initial instinct was to playfully bite down.

But Cersei didn't do playful.

And he wasn't allowed to mark her.

He lowered his head to her neck instead, his shoulder-length hair brushing her bare clavicles, as he resisted the urge to seize a small chunk of her skin in between his gleaming, white teeth. He wanted to nip at the tantalizing flesh; to mark her, and claim her as his.

He couldn't.

Disgruntled, he simply brushed her damp skin with the tip of his nose. She shifted impatiently underneath him, her neat nails digging into his back, but she offered a smile when his right hand started to travel up her body. It skated across her supple hips, and ghosted up her taut stomach, before landing on one pert breast. With a soft squeeze and an equally soft grin, he released his hold and continued traveling upwards until his hand reached her exposed throat.

Her green eyes narrowed in distrust, so he hastily pulled his fingers away, and allowed himself to be shoved off to the side. His wet cock bobbed as he used his elbows to settle himself onto his back. He stifled a hiss of pain, as his left shoulder twinged in discomfort. His body hadn't quite been given a moment of respite after the exertion of the previous evening. His muscles ached as a result.

Cersei quickly settled her lithe body over his, reaching down with nimble fingers to grasp his aching cock in a firm grip, and re-inserting it into her dripping cunt. He audibly sighed and closed his eyes as she began to rock back and forth. She placed her hands against his broad chest, but it wasn't long before he could feel her own long fingers wrapping around his neck.

Slowly, he opened his eyes and stared up at her from underneath long, dusty-gold lashes. He parted his lips, catching his lower one with a canine, but said nothing. He didn't feel any panic; he trusted her implicitly. Even when she began to apply firm pressure, his Adam's apple bobbing against the palm of her hand, he didn't panic. His face felt tight, as oxygen became less, while hers morphed into the beginning of a slightly sinister grin.

Still, he trusted her with his life.

They were one. She was his, and he was hers.

“Trust me,” she cooed sweetly. “You'll enjoy this.”

Jaime could feel his eyes widening as air became scarce, but still, the tightening didn't yield. Cersei continued to rock to and fro, controlling the pace as she closed her eyes and sped up her movements. His eyesight wavered as his circulation continued to be cut off; darkness encroaching at the corners of his eyes. Suddenly, finally, she must've found the right angle as she let out a strangled moan. The walls of her cunt fluttered around his cock as she came.

The enveloping darkness erupted in sudden, blinding light as she released her hold from his neck. Dizzied, he let out a low groan as his hips jerked upward of their own volition, and he came deep inside her in an almost overwhelming rush of pleasure. He balled the sheets underneath his sweaty back as he trembled; his hips continued to spasm involuntarily as he rode out the last of his orgasm.

Cersei shifted forward lazily, then lifted herself slowly so he could slide out of her. He grunted lowly at the movement, feeling sensitive, but could offer no other sentiment. She slipped away from the bed, leaving his sweat-slicked skin exposed to the cold air, but returned soon after wrapped in an elegant red robe.

She perched daintily on the edge of the mattress, and after a long moment of near-silence, Jaime finally cracked open an eyelid and sought her out. She was staring back at him, head tilted at an angle as she observed his nude form, before she swept her green eyes up to meet his.

“Don't ever do that again.”

His throat ached as he visibly swallowed. He could feel the tell-tale prickle of his skin erupting in goose flesh, and chose to believe that the icy cold feeling at the base of his spine had more to do with the blasting AC and not the suddenly dark, glittering stare of his sister.

He gingerly lifted his head to meet her eyes, before he offered a curt nod of his head in silent acquiescence.

* * *

“Why can't we get a nice hotel again?” Jaime moaned as he wrapped a coarse beige towel around his waist. He stepped out of the bathroom, steam billowing at his back, as he searched for his travel bag.

“Because we can't be seen,” Cersei sighed. It was the same reply she always had, with the ever-present nuance of annoyance lacing her tone. “We've been through this before, brother.” She was holding out her right hand, splaying her fingers as she examined her manicured nails.

Jaime unzipped his bag, pulled out a faded maroon polo, and tossed it onto the bed. He risked a glance in her direction. She didn't seem to be angry anymore. In fact, her lips were now curving up into a sly smile.

Jaime paused. “No one knows us here,” he protested. “No one _s__aw_ us here.” He dropped the bag, closed the distance between them in a few strides, and crouched in front of where she had resumed her perched position on the edge of the bed. He hesitantly grabbed her hands in his, holding them in his own, and looked up to meet her eyes. “We can be anyone we want here.”

“Brother,” Cersei rolled her eyes but didn't remove her hands from his. “It doesn't matter now anyway.”

He stiffened at her response.

“What do you mean?” He tried to school his face into one of disinterest.

“Robert is being transferred to your office.”

“He's _what_?”

He pulled his hands away, but she was quick to snatch them back.

“Don't you see?” Cersei pressed. “That means we can see each other more often.”

“It's dangerous enough as it is, Cersei, and you want your husband to move _closer_?”

“It's too late,” Cersei snapped back. “Director Targaryen accepted his request.”

Jaime lowered his head, pressing his temple against their clasped hands, before pressing a chaste kiss on her cool skin. He took a deep, steadying breath.

“Then we'll just have to be more careful.”

* * *

Catelyn Tully moved an errant curl of red away from her forehead, and behind her ear. It wouldn't stay for long, she knew, but at least it would not hinder her view of Aerys' latest pet project: Jaime Lannister.

The relatively new special agent, dressed splendidly in a tailored navy blue suit, was a recent hire from the elite King's Landing Division of the Westeros PD.

_Aerys hired him personally_, she reminded herself gravely. _He's not to be trusted. _

She took in the younger man's bruised eyes and scraped-up face. If anything, the scratches made him look even more ruggedly handsome than he annoyingly already was. There was also an interestingly deep red mark at the base of his neck.

_Almost like a hand_.

“God above,” Gendry Seaworth whistled as Jaime prowled into the field office. “How is it that you're back two days from an op, and you _still_ look like absolute shit.”

Jaime offered a smug grin. “I think red suits me rather well,” he replied with a wave of his hand towards the abrasions adorning his clean-shaven jawline.

_It must've hurt to high Heaven to shave around those_.

Catelyn, observing from where she stood behind a thick column, took that moment to step forward. She was ready to properly introduce herself to the young cub, but two colossal forms dwarfed her as they approached Lannister first. She resumed her position behind the column and watched.

She could visibly see the tension in his face by the tightening of skin around his cat-like eyes, but he easily schooled his expression into a self-effacing grin and asked the gentleman how he could help them.

“IAB,” one grunted.

The grin disappeared from his face in the blink of an eye.

“The _rat_ squad?” He snarled as he took a deliberate step back in an effort to put distance between them. Anyone seen talking to IAB was usually seen as a pariah. “What the fuck do you want?”

“We need to talk,” the other demanded.

“We don't,” Jaime ground out from between clenched teeth. His eyes darted around the office, desperately hoping no one was watching this exchange. Thankfully, Gendry instantly made himself scarce once the two insinuated themselves in their office.

Catelyn, though desperate to listen in further, decided she looked suspicious enough on her own. She took her leave quietly, but one last glance at Jaime's face revealed the whites of his eyes.

_He's frightened_.

She left as the second man stepped closer, grabbed Jaime forcibly by his arm, and said: “We do.” She was already gone when he added: “About Aerys. About Wildfire.”

“Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC.  
Please Review.


	3. Chapter 3

**NOW:**

* * *

“You have _horses_?”

“_We_ have horses,” Jaime corrected with a lip-biting grin, and a firm pat of affection on a white palfrey's hindquarters. “This beauty is Honor.” He pointed to the other three in quick succession: “That brown mare is Glory, the brown colt Dancer, and _that _beast,” he pointed to a black gelding that seemed to be glaring at her with the burning hatred of a thousand suns, “Is Stranger.”

Brienne warily stared at the large horse, and Jaime caught it. “I'd stay away from that one. The only asshole that beast seems to like is Clegane.” He cinched the saddle atop Honor a little tighter, as he shrugged. “Perfect pair, if you ask me.”

She inched herself closer to Glory, who introduced herself by pressing her cold muzzle into Brienne's neck.

“She's taken a liking to you,” he unnecessarily pointed out as he hauled himself atop his steed. He quietly observed his new partner as she ran a wide hand down the horse's neck.

_I wonder how that hand would feel running down me_.

He cleared his throat in discomfort at the unbidden thought. “Well, get your tack together O'_Tarth_, and mount up. We've got a park to patrol.”

_Where the hell did that thought come from? I must need to get laid._

“You don't have to say my name quite like that,” she muttered back as she pulled away from the mare, and turned toward the equipment hanging on the wall.

“Hm?” Jaime perked a golden brow up. He hadn't been listening to her, but rather staring at her firm backside. The black button-up seemed comfortably snug around her shoulders if he did say so himself. He leaned forward in his saddle, and Brienne couldn't help the brief flash of thought: _what if he straddled me like that?_

“Like what?”

“Like what?”

“I'm confused,” Jaime confessed as she had volleyed his question back to him in a slightly panicky tone. If he looked adorable in his confusion, with his brows drawn together and his eyes downcast, she would never admit it unless sworn to truth in court.

She pulled herself bodily atop of her horse and shifted her hips until the horse felt comfortable under her weight. “You seem easily prone to confusion,” she japed a little too harshly. She had embarrassed herself and lashed out to salve her wounded pride.

His frown of confusion deepened into a scowl. “And _you_ seem prone to flattening poor mares underneath your girth.”

Glory didn't seem to be in the least bit bothered, but Brienne felt her cheeks burn in a mixture of anger and hurt anyway. She jerked at the reigns of the mare and set off at a decent trot away from him. She had managed to put several yards in distance between them before she heard him casually call out her name in that annoyingly drawn-out way he did.

“O'_Tarth_.”

Another yard. And another.

“O'Tarth!”

“What!?” She guided the horse into a sharp turn and stared down at him.

“You're going the wrong way.”

* * *

They had arrived at the park without speaking to one another, but eventually, Jaime couldn't bear the silence anymore and began to drone on about how the CRD managed to acquire the four horses currently in their care.

“Most units have downgraded or done away with mounted police altogether. A sign of the times, I suppose.” He sighed wistfully. He was older than her, true, but not _that _much older. She would have guessed he was at least forty if she hadn't already known the answer: forty-eight. “Anyway, we were gifted these beauties out of pity, really. CRD being the runt of the litter, and all that. The park patrol, what we're doing now, usually gets to take them out for a spin. But they're mostly for pomp and show at this point.”

“I'm sure you're used to it,” she intoned in as bored a voice she could manage. In truth, she was interested in learning more about the CRD, and her new partner...but “what we're doing now.” _Really? _Did he think her stupid or something?

He ignored the comment and continued on as they got further into the park at a leisurely pace. “I'm sure Baratheon told you that we're not a 24/7 operation. There are two shifts, with four-man teams, and one sergeant to babysit. We close up the station at 10 PM, and open right back up at Satan-o-clock.” When she didn't laugh at his joke, he sighed. “6 AM.”

They entered a clearing in the park, where a wide expanse of bright green grass greeted them. The paved path they were on twisted around it, but left the center open for a plethora of activities. There was one woman lying on her back, a book raised in the air; a father-son duo tossing a baseball; another woman completing strange yoga poses atop a purple mat, and not too far away from her, a man that leered in her direction.

Brienne straightened up in her saddle and trained her blue eyes on the suspicious-looking man.

“We're a small unit, so we usually alternate duties. You could be patrolling one moment, and riding a horse the next.” She didn't point out that they were the same exact thing, just one happened to be within the confines of a car, and the other atop of a steed. “But rest assured, there will always be paperwork to complete at the end of the day.” He groaned at the prospect.

“You're right,” she said when he seemed to take a breath. “_Captain_ Baratheon did tell me all of this.” Before he could open his mouth to retort, she maneuvered Glory closer to his side, and leaned forward to ask, “Does that man look worrying to you?”

Then Brienne took in the beautiful transformation of Jaime the blabbermouth to Officer Lannister, the focused and driven individual she could only imagine he had started out as so many years before. The mirth dissipated from his eyes, his lips pressed together, and his back straightened.

_God_, _but he's unfairly good-looking_.

“I see him,” he affirmed in a clipped voice.

“He hasn't done anything,” she admitted, “But I don't care for the way he's ogling that woman. I don't even know what he's doing.”

“Well,” he canted his head in the direction of the man, the sun catching the burnished gold of his hair. He urged Honor into a trot, and called over his shoulder, “Let's go find out.”

They were nearly upon the man when he finally took notice of their approach. His eyebrows shot upward on his forehead as he scrambled to his feet. He stumbled in his haste and dropped something metallic to the ground. The glinting silver of a dagger glared from between the blades of grass.

“Knife!” Brienne called out as she kicked Glory into a run. The man took off towards the park's sole tunnel. The path was even and sure under her horse's hooves as she bore down on the fleeing man.

“O'Tarth!” Jaime called out after her. “Stop, O'Tarth! God damn it!”

The tunnel wasn't very long, but it was also not particularly well lit, and she wasn't familiar with the layout of the park just yet. If he reached the tunnel before she stopped him, he could escape. Her choices were to either have the horse stomp the man down into the ground, which could very well kill him, or to leap from atop her horse and onto his back like a Dothraki warrior from folklore. Which could _also _very well kill him

She chose the latter and dove off with an ugly grunt of exertion.

They tumbled to the pavement in a flurry of limbs, and cacophony of grunts and groans. She shook her head hard, trying to settle the world into a static image rather than a mess of green and blue blurs, and settled her larger frame on the small of the man's back.

“I haven't done anything!”

“Then why did you run?” She pulled his arms behind his back and proceeded to cuff him.

She could hear Jaime's approach, and could practically feel his anger emanating from his pores. He smoothly dismounted the horse with all the grace a lion would possess, and marched the last few feet toward her in righteous fury.

“_That _was quite impressive,” an effeminate voice murmured from the shadows of the tunnel. With one knee still pressed into the downed man's back, she smoothly twisted her body around to face the voice, her hand automatically falling to the butt of her service pistol.

Jaime was at her side in an instant, although his weapon was already drawn.

_ Still trigger-happy, Lannister_? _That's concerning_.

The figure stepped out into the sunlight. Upon sight of the heavy-set, balding man dressed in a weird set of what could only be called ceremonial robes, Jaime heaved a deep sigh and holstered his weapon cleanly.

“It was stupid,” Jaime snapped in response. He ran a hand through his sweaty, close-cropped hair. “If not rather fucking impressive,” he added almost in spite of himself.

“As I said.” The oddly dressed man smiled. “Officer Lannister, good to see you again.” He inclined his smooth head towards Brienne. “And a pleasure to meet you, Officer...?”

“Uh, O'Tarth,” she supplied warily, but she removed her hand from her weapon.

“Yes, O'_Tarth_,” Jaime drew out once again. He _so_ did seem to enjoy saying her name.

The blond motioned towards the stranger with a casual wave of his hand.

“Meet Varys. Our most treasured informant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC...  
Please Review.


	4. Chapter 4

**THEN:**

* * *

“Fuck.”

Jaime took a hard look at his grim-faced reflection in the mirror. The abrasions and scratches from a scant few weeks prior may or may not have finally faded away. He couldn't tell over the fresh ones he had earned in his latest outing. His eyes, red-rimmed with dark circles smudged underneath, took in his surroundings muzzily.

He reached up with one finger, and pulled the skin beneath his right eye down to peer closer at his constricted pupils. Exhaustion was beginning to settle into the marrow of his wary bones, and he was no more than twenty-five years of age.

_Aerys_, Jaime internally cursed. _The self-proclaimed King_.

“Mad King,” he angrily spat aloud to his reflection.

The director of the FBI was a loose cannon. Jaime knew this. Everyone knew this. It wasn't a newsflash. The grizzled elder was unraveling before their very eyes, and taking liberties that were becoming increasingly dangerous, but not for himself.

_Oh no_.

He allowed agents, like Jaime Lannister, to wade into the cesspool of chaos he brewed up against any and all perceived slights. It was odd, Jaime had thought one night as he nursed a dislocated jaw with a cold compress pressed to his swollen cheek, how _close _Aerys wanted him by his side...yet how _willing_ he was to throw Jaime to the wolves baying for his blood. And these were in scenarios in which Aerys created for himself. Never mind Jaime's _actual_ caseload.

It didn't take long for Jaime to realize the _real_ reason why he had been personally cherry-picked out of King's Landing by Aerys. Tywin, his father and a prominent figurehead in law, had urged the director to select him. Jaime couldn't believe he had once thought his hard work and dedication outshone his family name. Tywin had only been all too pleased to inform him of the opposite.

“No son of _mine_ is going to be some common grunt. If you insist on pursuing this field, and not go into law as I have done, and my father before me has done, and so on – Well, then you're going to be at the very top. At least you've given up the silly idea of opening up your own PI agency.”

_The most foolish Lannister, indeed._

Jaime had felt hurt, and angry, but eventually convinced himself that he _did _earn his place within the FBI's ranks. He had graduated with a Bachelor's degree in Criminal Justice by the age of 21, was hired within the same year within a local Westeros PD outfit, then proven himself worthy of the maroon polo of the King's Landing Division at a WPD training seminar that first summer. He had only been with the KLD for two years when Aerys Targaryen chose him.

All of that _before _the age of thirty.

He was still so young, yet he felt beat down and haggard. He had risen too high, too fast, and he was burning out. He hadn't thought he ever would, but Aerys was throwing him in volatile situations that were only bound to explode in his face, and he _just_ turned twenty-five.

And it wasn't awful working for Aerys, not in the beginning, but it wasn't long before Aerys' true nature began to bleed through the cracks of his once perfectly molded facade.

But the man was clearly trying to get him killed.

If the stress from secretly working with IAB didn't get there first.

Then there was Cersei.

_God, _Jaime pressed his aching head against the cool mirror, and closed his eyes. _Cersei_.

The hinges of the bathroom door audibly creaked as someone let themselves in. Jaime pulled his head away from the glass, turned the tap of the sink on, and set about busying himself with washing his trembling hands.

Until a decidedly _feminine_ hand reached into his line of vision, blurry as it was, and turned the faucet off. The hand wrapped around his right wrist, and tugged firmly until he turned his body towards what he imagined was a figment of his exhausted imagination. He didn't meet her gaze. He knew those hands like he knew his own.

He had thought her name, and there she was before him.

“Cersei,” he breathed.

She placed a hand against his cheek, and he leaned into it.

“Brother,” she whispered back. She tugged him toward the largest stall, and he blindly stumbled after her. “I need you.” She locked the stall door, and pushed him backward until he sat upon the toilet seat. She followed him down, pressing her painted red lips against his in a bruising kiss.

“You can't be here,” he moaned lowly into her mouth. “Anyone can walk in. They can't see us together. _Cersei_,” he hissed out her name like prayer, as she expertly unbuckled the belt of his trousers.

“The door is locked,” she said as her hand rubbed the front of his pants until he slowly hardened underneath her warm palm. “I'm visiting my husband.”

“In the men's bathroom?”

“I thought I'd check to see if he was in here first,” she murmured into the soft curve of his ear, before suckling on the sensitive flesh there. He bucked against her hand. She pulled his service weapon, still holstered, from his belt and gently placed it on the floor then she deftly unzipped his pants, and reached in like a woman on a mission.

_Speaking of which_-

“No underwear, brother? I'm scandalized.”

“No time to wash them,” he panted. “I've been rather busy with work.”

“Well, it's time for play then.” She pulled his rigid cock from the confines of his trousers, hiked her gold sundress up to her waist, and sunk herself down without ceremony. His pleasured groan was muffled by the slap of her palm over his mouth. It remained there as she set a brutally hurried, and frenzied pace.

Within moments, she was moaning her release into the sweat-slicked skin of his neck. Despite the comprising situation, Jaime was far too caught up in his desperate need for his own release to put a stop to everything now. She had gotten what she clearly wanted so badly, and he was going to take his fill too.

_I earned this_, he thought bitterly.

He yanked her body tightly against his, placed his hands on either side of her waist, and manipulated her form up and down until she relented and began to move on her own. He slammed his eyes closed, and threw his head back as she kept the same pace she had initially started. She raked emerald eyes over the expanse of his neck, and suckled at a pleasingly blue bruise she found there.

His orgasm took him by surprise, but it was followed by a more comfortable kind of exhaustion that he was more accustomed to. He wanted to take a moment, to relish having her in his arms, but she pushed away and adjusted her dress after wiping herself clean with a wad of toilet paper. He tucked himself back into his pants, and eyed her warily from underneath a hooded gaze.

“You can't keep doing this,” he finally told her. He stooped to retrieve his weapon, and secured it through his belt loops once again. “It's too dangerous.”

She rolled her eyes, and unlocked the stall door. He took a deep breath, steadied himself, then followed her out. She was fixing her lipstick in the mirror, where he had been resting his head a moment before.

“You're a special agent in the FBI. Isn't 'dangerous' your middle name?”

“Cersei-”

“Brother.” She fluffed her hair, and made for the exit. “You're a special agent,” she said again, although her voice now held an edge as sharp as her smile, “You can stop me. If you wanted to.”

She was gone before he could formulate a proper response.

He met his gaze in the mirror once again.

“_Fuck_.”

Then, “Fuck it.”

He threw open the bathroom door, strode down the hall, and burst into the office of Aerys Targaryen with the full intention of getting the man to confess to whatever part he had in the funding and manufacturing of the deadly compound, Wildfire.

IAB never said he had to be discreet about it, and he was a _goddamn special agent_.

He had mentally armed himself with pretty words and sharp barbs, all in an effort to trick Aerys into admitting his hand, but they all shriveled up and turned to ash in his mouth when he came upon Aerys in the middle of demanding Rossart, a member of their Explosives Unit, to _make sure the devices were truly armed_-

“I want to burn them all!”

Jaime pulled his service weapon without a single thought, and aimed it Rossart's chest. The man seemed startled at Jaime's arrival, before he rushed forward with the full intention of taking Jaime out, and-

_I'm a fucking special agent_.

_I earned this_.

He pulled the trigger once. Twice. Three times.

Just like he was trained to do.

Aerys howled in fury. He snatched an object from off his paper-strewn desk, and held it up in the air. His long-nailed thumb hovered over the SEND button.

It was an old burner phone.

Jaime's heart sunk into his stomach.

“I will burn them all! I will burn amongst you, and _rise_ again from the ashes. We will all burn!”

Jaime swallowed hard.

_“Burn them all!”_

The director of the FBI was going to detonate an insurmountable amount of explosive devices that contained the Wildfire compound in this very building. Where hundreds of men and women worked. Where there was daycare on the lower level.

_Innocent children_.

Jaime pulled the trigger. Again, and again, and again.

He pulled the trigger twelve times in total.

_Not_ like how he was trained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC...  
Please Review.


	5. Chapter 5

**NOW:**

* * *

The man cuffed before them was truly insane.

Shagwell, the only name he offered when they probed him for one, intermittently erupted in a fit of maniacal laughter at seemingly nothing. He idly picked at a shallow scrape he had incurred from when Brienne had tackled him to the pavement, then proceeded to draw stick figures atop the metal table before him with the blood he gouged out.

Jaime and Brienne shared a sidelong look of mutual disgust. Finally, Brienne cleared her throat and asked for the third time: “What were you doing in the park with a knife?”

“Hunting,” he stated; a gleam of amusement in his eyes.

Jaime shifted in his seat, as she asked, “Hunting for what?”

“Girls.”

“_Girls_?” Jaime wrinkled his nose.

“For who?”

Jaime glanced at her from the side of his eye. He wouldn't have thought to ask that question.

Shagwell turned his head to stare at Jaime. “Yes. Girls.” He erupted into another fit of laughter. He turned to fully face Brienne. “For trade. Everybody wants something for something, right? I give them girls, and then I get money. I get lots of money.”

Brienne stifled a shiver as she pressed, “For _who_?”

Shagwell shrugged. “I give you information. I get something.”

“That's _not _how this fucking works,” Jaime growled. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table between them. A glint of light reflected off of his left wrist.

“We'll ask for leniency,” Brienne started slowly. There wasn't much they could hold him on, really, aside from possession of a knife that exceeded the 7 cm legal blade length. The bail would be set so laughably low that he just may as well have stood and walked out now.

The man seemed to consider, though. Then he motioned towards Jaime's wrist with an odd wave of his fingers. “Leniency, and that fancy watch.”

“My watch?” Jaime twisted his arm to look down at the gold band. He opened his mouth to deny the lecherous creep, when he felt Brienne's blue eyes settle upon his face. He flicked his own over to meet hers, and felt his mouth dry up.

_Fuck me_,_ her eyes are gorgeous_.

“Fine,” he bit out. He unsnapped the band to loosen it, then slid off the watch in haughty, jerky movements. He slid the object over in to Shagwell's cupped hands.

“Littlefinger.”

Brienne reared her head back in confusion. “Excuse me?”

She didn't miss how Jaime suddenly stiffened in the seat next to her. Shagwell's eyes seemed to brighten further.

“So, you've heard of him?”

“The Bloody Mummers,” Jaime replied. “You work for the fucking Bloody Mummers.” It wasn't a question, although Brienne had many of her own.

“I work for myself,” Shagwell sneered. He sat back in his seat, clutching his new prize in his still cuffed hands. “That's all I'll say on it.”

“Who is Littlefinger?”

Jaime shook his head roughly. “I'll fill you in later. For now, throw this damn clown into the holding cell.” He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly in the room, before he made his exit.

Brienne frowned. Jaime may have been working in law enforcement longer than she had, but he hadn't managed to make it to Sergeant in all the time he'd been with the CRD. He wasn't her superior. Rankled, she reluctantly pushed her chair back and rounded the table. She grabbed Shagwell by his elbow, and was met with something wet. She snatched her hand away in horror.

“I don't have AIDS,” Shagwell laughed. “But that doesn't mean I don't have anything else.” He threw his head back and howled further when she scowled, and shoved him ahead of her. “Better get tested, little lady.” He snorted, and shook his head. “_Little_.”

She made short work of tossing the disgusting man into the holding cell, before rushing to the nearest sink, which happened to be in the break room where Jaime was tearing a sandwich into pieces with his teeth. She scrubbed her hands till they felt raw, then finally turned to lean against the counter behind her, and stared at the side of her partner's head.

“Who is Littlefinger? And who are the Bloody Mummers?”

Jaime snorted, and shook his head. He swallowed what he had in his mouth, and made to go in for another bite, when he looked askance and saw her watching him expectantly. He slowly placed his sandwich on the mountain of napkins before him, and looked at her in semi-awe.

“You're serious? You've really never heard of the Bloody Mummers?” He turned to fully face her. He placed one elbow on the back of his chair, and the other on the edge of the table. Brienne tried to ignore how he spread his legs.

_Manspreading_, she thought in amusement.

“Of course you haven't,” he said with a sudden bark of laughter. “I'm sure your father took one look at you, and thought: no need to warn _her_ about ever being abducted.”

Brienne stiffened at the implication. “Because I'm too ugly to be wanted by even rapists?”

“_What_?” Jaime pulled his head back. “No! No, I meant because you cut quite the formidable figure.”

“I'm sure that's what you meant,” she replied in a tone so acidic that she was surprised he didn't melt before her.

“_O'Tarth_,” Jaime sighed. “I didn't mean it like that.”

“Forget it,” she snapped. “Tell me about Littlefinger.”

She wanted to enjoy how he worked his well-defined jaw, but she was still feeling hurt, so she folded her arms across her chest and waited. He looked up at her from his seat, looking as though he wanted to apologize again, but instead he took a deep breath and nodded.

“The Bloody Mummers are an underground sex trafficking ring. They've been on our radar since 2010. Well,” Jaime admitted, “They've been around longer than that, but they're a fucking traveling circus.” He shook his head. “Not literally. They move locations every few years, but they're damned good at staying under the radar. So much so that we think-” He cut himself off, and leaned back in his seat, looking at the open break room door. He lowered his voice, and turned back to her. “We think they've got someone in the force working for them.”

“And Littlefinger?”

“Their puppet master.”

Brienne chewed on her lower lip. “So, we've got an idea of how they get their girls.”

“I guess you could say that,” Jaime retorted. At the look she shot him, he held up his hands in defense. “We don't know anything outside of the fact that they hire outside help. We do, however, know that they generally get the girls hooked on drugs once they get their dirty paws on them. Then they start to withhold them-”

“So that they're desperate enough to do anything for their next hit,” Brienne concluded in a low voice. “That's disgustingly deplorable.”

“If that isn't enough, they then sell them off to the highest, willing bidder.”

“Like cattle.”

“Like cattle,” he confirmed.

She worried her bottom lip with a broad canine; her glassy blue eyes cast down and stared unfocused at the checkered linoleum of the floor. She unfolded her arms, and started to anxiously pick at the cuticles of her jagged nails. She went as far as to raise one hand to her mouth, the nail of her thumb resting on the edge of her wide lip, before she aborted the motion and settled for scratching at her soft jaw instead.

Jaime studied her from underneath long lashes. She wasn't exactly attractive to the eye, but she definitely drew them to her. She towered over the majority of the squad, himself included, although only by an inch or so. Everything about her was wide: her shoulders, her waist, her lips, her eyes.

_But what eyes_, Jaime dreamily sighed.

“What?”

Startled, Jaime returned her curious gaze with an open mouth.

“I said I know a guy,” he blurted. He turned to his sandwich, gathered it in his hand, and strode out of the break room before he realized he didn't clarify what in the fuck he meant by that statement.

Confused, Brienne followed his hasty retreat with her eyes, before following him out. She watched as he threw his sandwich into the wastebasket by his desk, which was sequestered in the corner of the bullpen, and then stalked off into the direction of the locker room.

Brienne looked down at her watch, and frowned. Their shift was up twenty minutes ago. She picked her way around the stupidly placed desks in the middle of the room, and began to power down her computer monitor and tidy up her work station. She was in the middle of filing a few loose documents when a throat sheepishly cleared itself next to her.

“Fancy grabbing a drink with me?”

Jaime was shifting his weight from foot to foot, with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his civilian jeans. He had also traded in his uniform button-up for a long-sleeved maroon one. He looked positively divine, but then Brienne recalled their earlier conversation.

_Formidable_, she snorted. _A friendlier way of saying ugly._

_ Past Jaime's nervously shifting form she could see _Blackwater, Tyrell, and Baelish also dressed in civilian attire. One whispered something that must've been funny, because the other two erupted in laughter. It hit her suddenly.

“Did you draw the short straw?” She snarled as she stood up from where she was crouched.

“What?”

“They sent you over here, right? Made a bet on whether or not I'd go out with you guys?”

Jaime blanched at her accusation.

_Nailed it_.

“Not interested,” she snapped. She watched as he took a wavering step back, and another. He looked hurt and angry, and she thought _good_.

It wasn't until he brushed passed the group without a single word or glance in their direction when she realized she may have made a huge mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC...  
Please Review.


	6. Chapter 6

**THEN:**

* * *

Jaime's hand trembled as he brought an unlit cigarette to his lips. He tilted his head, and tried to get the plastic lighter in his palm to ignite. His thumb slipped one too many times before he cursed, and tossed the damned item across the room. The cigarette pulled at the dry skin of his lips, but he didn't dare pull it away. It was a small comfort just to have it there.

“There's no smoking in here.”

“Does it look like I'm fucking smoking?” Jaime snapped at the voice.

“It looks like you're trying,” the arid voice replied, “And watch your tongue. I am still your father.”

Jaime risked a glance up through the curtain of his hair. It was tangled; a sweaty mess. Through the twisted, gold strands he could see his father sitting across from him. The air in the room was as frigid as his father; Tywin's eyes, posture, and tone of voice were like ice that pierced through Jaime's very being.

“Apologies, Father,” Jaime muttered. “I didn't realize it was you.”

The older man _hm'd _in response.

Jaime cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. The bare metal of the chair did nothing to warm him underneath his father's piercing stare. He plucked the cigarette from his lips, and ran his tongue over them in an attempt to moisten them before he spoke.

“And?” He leaned forward, crushing the cigarette in his sweat-slicked palm. He tried to affect an air of nonchalance, but his father was the human epitome of indifference. “What of my sentence?”

Tywin let his eldest son stew a moment longer, before he crossed his arms over the double-breasted suit he wore. “You will be stripped of any and all honors and decorations you have earned. You will serve no time.” He watched as his son visibly sagged in relief at that. Jaime was always unrestrained when it came to his emotions. “You will be allowed to keep your position here, but only by the good grace of the IAB.”

There, his eldest snarled silently, and ground the disgusting cigarette in his hand even further into dust. “I never told them _anything_.” His leonine eyes flashed, and Tywin felt a small twinge of pride at that.

_A lion still has claws_.

“That doesn't matter,” Tywin informed him.

Jaime sat back in his seat, eyes narrowed and mouth parted in self-righteous fury. “Of _course _it matters!” He slammed his hand down atop the metal table between them. The cigarette was now finely pulverized. He left the remains of it on the tabletop as he raised his right hand and pointed at the closed door. “They all think I'm a rat!”

“Lower your voice,” Tywin commanded.

“What good am I here if I can't be trusted?” Jaime had stopped shouting, but his voice was tight from the effort.

“What good are you, indeed.”

Jaime stiffened. He immediately lowered his eyes to the gleaming metal before him; canting his head so that his hair could hide the hurt that flit across his features. Tywin, of course, missed nothing. He simply took in the sight with an indifferent blink of his pale eyes.

“Your good-brother has been promoted to director. He has seen it fit to make sure you have been cleared of all charges.” Tywin stood suddenly. He swept a hand down his suit, picking at imaginary particles of lint, before he settled the full weight of his stare over his son.

Slowly, Jaime lifted his head and met his father's penetrative gaze.

“You will not embarrass me again.”

Jaime worked his jaw, before squaring it and nodding curtly. Tywin took a moment to study him a second longer, before he swept out of the room as quietly as he had entered.

Jaime tore into his bottom lip with his canine as the first tear hit the table.

The rest were roughly wiped away before they could join it.

* * *

“Whoa!” A boisterous voice cut in through the fog of Jaime's mind. “Easy there, Kingslayer! It's only a cellphone!” An obnoxious laugh followed.

Jaime smiled weakly at his brother-in-law.

“I'm only kidding,” Robert chuckled as he thumped Jaime on his shoulder. “Although, I think I'd rather you leave your service weapon locked up while you're here.”

Jaime cast the larger man a perplexed expression. He awaited the laugh, the japing at his expense, but Robert's amused expression only tightened under his scrutiny. Slowly, Jaime reached down to where his weapon was holstered on his right hip. He undid the snap, then wrapped his fingers around the butt of the gun. He hesitated a moment, still waiting for the laughter, before he slowly withdrew it and handed it over.

“Many thanks,” Robert grinned as he took the weapon and placed it in a safe underneath his oak desk. “I wouldn't want you to see one of the kids with their phone out, and mistake them for the Mad King.”

Jaime clenched his jaw as fury overtook him, but he slowly exhaled through his nostrils. “I understand the precaution,” he ground out.

“Good,” Robert replied, “I had thought you might.” He rounded the desk, and slung his arm around Jaime's broad shoulders. “Now come and see what the wife's whipped up for my celebratory dinner. Director Baratheon has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?”

Jaime fought the urge to shrug out from Robert's weight, and allowed himself to be led out of the den and into the dining room. He scrounged up a small smile when he meet the eyes of his younger brother, Tyrion. He was glad to have him there.

“Uncle Jaime!”

The weight around his shoulders disappeared as a willowy figure wrapped itself around him. He staggered, one foot falling behind the other, as his one and only niece beamed up at him from where she burrowed her head into his chest.

“I've missed you,” she announced as she squeezed him tighter.

Jaime's heart stuttered in his chest, and he swallowed thickly. He allowed himself a brief moment, touching his chin atop of her golden tresses, before he gently pried her arms from around his waist. “I've missed you too, Myrcella.”

“Myrcella,” a voice snapped from the entryway of the kitchen, “Come help me with dinner, and leave your uncle be.”

_Cersei_. Jaime chewed on his previously bitten lip, and soothed over the ache with a swipe of his tongue. He raised his head a little higher, trying to meet the eyes of his twin, but she had disappeared as quickly as she had arrived.

“We've missed you too, Uncle Jaime.” He lowered his gaze to take in his youngest nephew, Tommen, and he resisted the urge to melt as the sweet boy cradled a kitten in his arms. “Didn't we?” The boy lifted the dozing kitten's paw, and waved it in the air.

“Ah,” Jaime said softly. He crouched down to meet the pair at their height. “This must be Ser Leap.” His heart leapt as the boy guffawed in laughter. “No? Ser Bound then?” The giggling increased, and Jaime grinned as Tyrion also smiled at the infectious sound. “Surely, it's Ser Jump then.”

“No,” Tommen laughed. “It's Ser Pounce!”

“Of course!” Jaime pressed the palm of his hand against his forehead. “How could I forget? A fitting name for a lion cub, if I do say so myself.”

“You only say that because you helped named him,” Tyrion pointed out, before he raised his hands in defense as Jaime playfully glared in his direction.

Tommen's laughter subsided with a soft sigh, and Jaime found himself reaching out to caress his plump cheek with a finger, before he aborted the motion and gently scratched the kitten on the head instead. He studied the young boy with wide, wondrous eyes. How could someone so sweet, so innocent come from such a cold woman?

“Brother.” He swallowed the lump in his throat, and stood to his full height. His sister's glare rivaled their father's. “I would have a word.”

Jaime offered Tommen a brief smile, before he cast a helpless look to his brother, then he followed his sister out of the room and down a hall. Out of sight, she quickly lashed out with her hand, and grabbed his wrist in a grip that almost burned. She tugged him into the nearest room, and firmly shut the door behind them.

He opened his mouth to apologize, but she was on him instantly, her lips meeting his and her tongue intruding between his parted ones.

“_Cersei_,” he managed to hiss as he gently pushed at her.

She pulled back, and slapped him hard across his face.

Open-mouthed, he left his head twisted to the side, and blinked.

“What the _hell_ were you thinking?”

“What?” He slowly exhaled.

“You killed the director! Now my _husband_ is in charge. I honestly did not think his head could get any bigger,” she laughed but it was without humor, “Yet, here we are!”

“Calm down,” Jaime caught her arm as she made to strike him again. “Calm the fuck down,” he growled from deep in his chest. He pulled her closer to him.

“You could have gone to jail,” she hissed angrily. She didn't struggle against his firm hold. “You're mine, brother. Mine.” She made to claim his lips again, but he turned his head to avoid it.

“No,” he whispered, “Don't.”

She pulled her arm from his now lax grip, and grabbed his jaw with her freed hand.

“You're mine.”

_I am hers. She is mine._

_ Fuck everyone that isn't us._

When she moved to kiss him again, he didn't resist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC...  
Please Review.


	7. Chapter 7

**NOW:**

* * *

The day after Brienne's rather unsparing rejection, Jaime found a paper to-go cup full of hot coffee and a delicious looking cinnamon bun waiting for him at his desk. He tugged at the zipper of his black windbreaker, and kept a cautious eye on the gifts. Finally, he relented and took a tentative sip from the steaming cup, and moaned appreciatively at the taste.

“It's from Hotpie's,” a soft voice said from in front of him.

He glanced up, and met Brienne's welcoming blue eyes.

“As reconciliation for yesterday,” she continued sheepishly.

He worked his jaw for a moment, canting his head to the side to study her as he took another sip. “It's not necessary.” He licked his lips, and followed her eyes as they followed his tongue. “But it's appreciated.”

He shrugged off his windbreaker, placed it on the back of his chair, and settled himself behind his desk. He set about powering up his computer, munching on the pastry as he waited for it to boot. When prompted, he typed in his log-in password with one hand, while he sucked on the digits of the other.

“You're going to have sticky fingers,” Brienne chided with a hint of revulsion at his actions.

“Speaking of sticky fingers-” He raised his bare left arm, high enough for her to see over his monitor, and shook it as if he was adjusting a loose bracelet or watch. “Our watch connoisseur swiped some of that lady's stuff yesterday, so we're going to have to haul him in again.”

She scrunched up her nose. “Oh, joy.”

“Yeah,” he drawled in mutual sentiment. “No jumping off horses this time, though.”

“No promises,” she shot back.

He huffed softly in laughter, and turned back to his screen. While he opened up a current case file, and struggled to make sense of the jumbled up words, his partner was busy silently berating herself for joking around with him.

_He worked with IAB. He killed his boss. He's a rat. Don't get too close to him. Just do your job._

She hunkered down at her own desk, pulling up any files she could find in connection to the Bloody Mummers, in the hopes of finding some information on either their outfit or their leader.

There were multiple hypertext links that led to articles covering stories of missing girls over the years. She followed blue link after blue, hour after hour, down a rabbit hole of eye-catching headlines, each boasting one or two words of similarity: missing girl, found drugged, and raped.

The locations of each girl were scattered all over the whole of Westeros. Some were in concentrated little groups, presumably when the Bloody Mummers camped there for a time, and it sickened Brienne that they were even able to do so without detection.

_There_ must_ be an inside man on the force. _

The thought turned her stomach even further.

_They've been here too long, if they were established in the Casterly Rock area in 2010. _She pushed her chair away from her desk. _There's no actual concrete information on Littlefinger, and there's possible-_ She snorted out loud, and ignored Jaime's inquisitive look in her direction. _No, there's definite police involvement._

_ So, could it be that Littlefinger _was_ the cop?_

* * *

“Hey, O'Tarth? Care to join us for drinks?”

She turned her stiff neck to see the source of the voice, Tyrell, grinning up at her from his usual mop of curls. He was dressed in civilian attire, alongside Blackwater and Baelish. She put down the pot of coffee she was helping herself to, under the assurance that Clegane didn't make it, and looked at her watch. Once again, she had lost track of time, and her shift was over now ten minutes ago.

“There's a pub that caters specifically to cops. It's called Highgarden.”

She glanced over her shoulder, to where her partner was tiredly tapping at the keys of his keyboard, and then back to Tyrell. Of the officers she worked with on her shift, Tyrell seemed to be the least egregious. Although, now he was making a point to ignore Lannister, but kept beaming up at her in genuine friendliness.

“I'd love to,” she finally replied.

_I'd especially love to speak with Baelish_,_ since he's known to frequent brothels_._ Maybe he can shed some light on the Bloody Mummers, among other things..._

“Great!”

“But I can't,” she finished remorsefully. “Maybe next time?”

Tyrell's face fell. He finally allowed a glance in Jaime's direction, but he was all smiles by the time he looked back up at her. If it seemed less genuine than before, neither commented on it. “Yeah, maybe next time.”

The trio bid their farewells to the afternoon team, and made their exit, as Brienne worked her away around the stupidly positioned desks and to her partner's side. She towered above him awkwardly, cleared her throat, and asked: “Would you like to get some drinks?”

* * *

She truly hadn't meant to bring Catelyn Tully up in conversation, but she panicked when he had asked her about her time in the Winterfell Division, and had instead waxed poetic about working with the red-haired woman.

Curious, Jaime had pointed out he hadn't known Catelyn to have ever worked in Winterfell, and Brienne blurted out she must've just appeared like she worked there. Possibly visiting her son, Robb Stark, since he was well on his way to running that outfit.

Which led to the following outburst: “Wait. Catelyn Tully is _married_ to Ned Stark!?”

“Yes,” she slowly drawled. Then, “You didn't know?”

“No!”

She cringed. She hoped that bringing up Ned Stark didn't grind their surprisingly pleasant (if not a little too flirtatious) night to a halt. But suddenly Jaime was laughing so hard that he had to set his fourth beer down in fear of letting it slip from his fingers. He clutched at his stomach.

“God! How _boring_ must their dinner conversations be!” He affected a gruff tone of voice, “How was your day, dear?” then tilted his head to the side and attempted a slightly higher one, “Classified. Pass the salt?” He mimed passing said salt. “How was your day?” He pretended to cut a steak, and went back to what was presumably a Ned Stark impression. “Attorney-client privilege. More gravy?”

He cackled at his own japing, his laughter so infectious that Brienne couldn't help but smile at his antics. After a moment, he wiped a tear from the corner of his eye with his knuckle, then reached for his beer again. He took a deep pull, then licked at his wet lips.

Brienne froze at the movement, smile plastered on her reddening face. She finished the last of her coffee, having finished drinking over an hour ago so that she could drive herself home, but still prayed she could blame the flush of her cheeks on the alcohol.

She grabbed her credit card, and went to pay for their drinks while Jaime went to relieve himself in the “little boy's room.” She rolled her eyes at that. The man was anything but little.

_I wonder if_ _his-_

She cut that train of thought off quickly, and jammed her long limbs into her beige pea coat. If she studied his fine form as he made his way back to their booth, well, that was her own business. She was in the middle of staring at a shallow scar, lying horizontally on his forehead, when he suddenly looked up from where he was fighting with his jacket zipper.

He smirked. “My father,” he said in a tone of voice that belied his expression, “preferred to fight with words, not fists.” He had mentioned his father earlier, in the same conversation where he casually mentioned his childhood dream of opening a PI agency to help the poorer masses. “Although, I've a few scars that say differently.”

She thought of giant, friendly, loving Selwyn O'Tarth. “He _beat_ you?”

“What?” Now, he looked alarmed. “No, no. Just a corrective cuff every now and again. Hardly a beating.” He waved an impatient hand in the air.

Unbelieving, she let it go, and instead fought him on the fact that she would drive him home. He had finally relented when she reminded him that he was already employed at the CRD, and how much lower down the divisional ladder could you go from there?

He had visibly shuddered at the thought.

His apartment wasn't too far from their station, and was in a surprisingly seedy part of town. When she pulled up at the curb, she risked a glance through his side of the window, and up at the forbidding, rundown building.

_Don't you come from Lannister money_? She wanted to ask.

Instead, she allowed the comfortable silence they had driven in to continue. The car was dark, the streets outside of their little bubble even darker. Finally, he shifted in the shadows and unbuckled his seat belt. He placed his hand on the handle of the door, then paused. She could feel his stare on the side of her face, so she slowly turned to look at him.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “The guys, they've never-” He cut himself off, and looked down at his lap. He looked to be thinking hard. He swept his eyes to meet hers, and in the light of the pale moon, she could see that his eyes were actually a vibrant shade of blue, and that they were currently piercing her own. Searching.

He slowly leaned over the console between them, thin lips slightly parted, and she suddenly had the thought: _he's going to kiss me!_

Just shy of her own lips, within inches, he paused. His stare was shockingly sober and steady.

“You know what they call me? Kingslayer?”

_What?_

She nodded dumbly to his question. She could feel his warm breath mingling with her own as he sighed in resignation.

“Have you ever heard of Wildfire?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC...  
Please Review.


	8. Chapter 8

**THEN:**

* * *

“I've heard a nasty rumor.”

“Oh?”

“About you – and your sister.”

Tywin could almost believe it was pride he felt when he took in his eldest son. The younger man stood before him, hands casually tucked into the pockets of his tailored suit, with an air of carefully crafted, very nearly perfected nonchalance. At the mention of his twin, the man had jut out his squared jaw, and bore his dark blue eyes upon his father; they twinkled with self-righteous fury.

Tywin gave Jaime life, and raised him to become the proud lion he was, yet the cub still bared his fangs at the hand that reared him when push came to shove.

Well, Tywin Lannister was well versed in pushing and shoving.

He thrived in it.

“Do you deny them?”

“Absolutely,” Jaime vehemently replied.

He took a moment longer to scrutinize his son; leveling his steady, pale eyes on the other until he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“So, there is no need to subject the children to a DNA test?”

He watched as his son's eyes widened fractionally.

“No.”

He was frightened.

“Good.” He pushed his chair back away from the heavily ornate desk before him. He folded his hands over his stomach. “I will not abide anyone giving credence to such nasty rumors, nor will I allow my son to practice law under the Lannister name while such _rumors_ stain him.”

Jaime furrowed his brow, and frowned heavily. He took a step forward, almost cautiously, as he cocked his head to the side. “ I understand the need for stamping out such rumors, Father, but law? I'm not in law. Tyrion is.”

“Tyrion is a hack-” He held up a hand to impede his son's staunch protest for his younger brother. “Never mind the little disgrace. As you are no longer in the employ of the Federal Bureau, I believe it is time you went back to school and received a degree in law. So, that you may take over the practice when the time comes.” He sniffed in disdain. “You are never too old to start over. Although, you _are_ pushing it.”

If he hadn't been observing his son as he spoke, he would've had to look up to discern why no reply was forthcoming. Instead, he took in the frozen rictus of appalled indignation on Jaime's face. The younger man slowly closed his mouth shut; his jaw clenched so tightly that Tywin would not have been surprised to hear a tooth cracking under the pressure.

Tywin perked a sole brow in feigned surprise. “Haven't you heard the news? Your good-brother Robert saw it fit to relieve you of your duties. There will be an adequate severance package, I would assume-”

“What did you do?” Jaime ground out. He was almost visibly seething.

“I did what I should have done years ago.”

“You had _no_ right-”

“I had _every_ right,” Tywin snarled back. “You are my son. I should have done something when that unfortunate Targaryen situation occurred, but I abode your wishes then. Not anymore. Not after this.”

“This?” Jaime shook his head furiously. “Over _rumors_? Rumors that you'd be breathing life into by forcing me out of my job!”

“Lower your voice,” Tywin snapped as he swiftly stood. He rounded the desk, and was physically upon Jaime before the younger man even realized he had been reaching for him. He grasped his son's chin within his smooth palm, and forced him to meet his eyes. “It's time you've become the man you were always meant to be.”

There was a brief flash of hurt that graced Jaime's eyes, before he shifted his stance so that he stood taller, and met his father's eyes with a glower. “You mean the man _you_ want me to be.”

“Is there a difference?”

The question was rhetorical.

There was a beat of silence, then another, before Jaime very slowly lifted his right arm and wrapped his long, slender fingers around his father's wrist. He tugged the older man's arm away from his face with visibly restrained force, holding the limb within his calloused palm for a moment before releasing it with an expression bordering on his father's own disgust.

_A Lannister through and through,_ Tywin thought proudly. _If not the most foolish._

“I'm not going to practice law.” Jaime had schooled his face into a blank expression, but the stringent tone in his voice belied the placidity.

Tywin narrowed his eyes, and studied his eldest son once more. He took a deep, steadying breath before he slowly granted him his acceptance with a curt nod. “Fine.”

Jaime's eyes flashed in surprise as Tywin pulled away, rounded his desk once again, and settled himself back into his chair. He steepled his fingers as he continued. “Stannis Baratheon, the dour fool though he is, has found himself the Captain of the Casterly Rock Division. I'm sure you've heard of it?” Jaime offered his father a singular, if not confused, nod. “It seems he's having trouble finding suitable men to fill out his unit. If you're so keen on playing policeman, then you may go and work under him. Otherwise, I expect you to go back to school.”

Tywin couldn't help but allow himself a smug smile as he comfortably leaned back in his leather-cushioned seat. He watched as the features on his son's face tightened as realization dawned on him. The two choices were obviously an ultimatum; the options between being a disgraced former agent in an equally disgraced police unit or going back to law school and finally beginning to follow in his father's footsteps. Which appeared to be an equally distasteful future if Jaime's visible derision was anything to judge by.

Any man with an ounce of self-respect and containing at _least_ half of a brain within their skull would have chosen to go back to college than work under Stannis Baratheon's ill-reputed force.

“I'll work for Baratheon.”

_My son _does_ appear to posses only half of a brain_.

Tywin didn't allow his thoughts to betray his still expression. Instead, he canted his head to the side and allowed the simple motion to serve as his acquiescence.

The younger man scowled, working his mouth open and closed as he fought the urge to leave the room with a cutting remark, true to his character, but instead he snapped his teeth together. He offered his father a brusque, mocking bow and a sweep of his arm before he executed an about-face and stalked toward the elder man's office door.

_The most foolish Lannister, indeed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC...  
Please Review.


	9. Chapter 9

**NOW:**

* * *

_"Have you ever heard of Wildfire?”_

Brienne pulled her head back. She thought they had been about to share a kiss. One that she, admittedly, shouldn't even had been thinking about - let alone letting it happen. They were cops. They were _partners_, yet she had been very close to asking him to invite her up to his dump of an apartment.

“Wildfire?” She grabbed the steering wheel, feeling suddenly anxious and unsure of what to do with hands. She had wanted to grab him by the back of his neck in a passionate embrace just a moment earlier, and now he was dousing out her flare of desire with a word that had nothing to with water. “It's a volatile compound.” She swallowed thickly. “Aerys Targaryen was rumored to have been funding the research and creation of it.”

She didn't meet his unwavering gaze as she said, “And you killed him over it.”

Brienne suddenly felt overwhelmingly angry. She turned in her seat, her belt still strapped snugly across her chest. “You killed him so that you could take over as director. You Lannisters,” she spat the same as if it were a curse, “All power-hungry monsters.”

He blinked at her owlishly, then a snarl slowly overtook his lips. Lips that were so tantalizing close to hers not so long ago. “Is that what you think?” He faced forward, then slammed his fist on the dashboard. She jumped. “Fuck! Is that what you _all_ think?”

“What were we supposed to think!?” She shouted back. In a quieter, hostile voice, she continued. “There were rumors going around. That you approached IAB with information on Aerys. Whether or not that information was real or not – It didn't matter. You were already an outcast. A _rat_. Then you stormed into his office, and you killed a fellow agent, before turning your gun on Aerys.” She took a deep, steadying breath. “What were we supposed to think? The old man was armed with a damn _cellphone_.”

There was a moment of silence, his expression thunderous in the shadows, but instead of exploding defensively like she thought he would, he calmly said, “That _cellphone_ was the trigger to a cache of explosives laced with Wildfire.” He didn't allow her a word as he continued lowly, “That _cache_ was underneath the building we were working in. The _building_ where hundreds of men and women worked. _Good _and _honorable_ people, _O'Tarth_. Where the _children_ of those men and women were cared for.” He sagged in his seat. “_Burn them all_.”

Brienne felt as though all the blood had drained from her face. She could feel her lips moving, trying to form a response to his outburst, but her brain couldn't keep up.

“That's what he said. _Burn them all_. That's what he had been screaming before I killed him. He was prepared to kill us all, himself included, with the simple push of a button on that fucking _cellphone_.” He looked out of his window, and whispered: “_Burn them all_.”

It took a few moments, before her mouth finally caught up to her brain – or was it vice versa?

“If this is true,” she started out slowly, “Why didn't you tell anyone?”

He snorted derisively, eyes still trained through the pane of glass. “Like who? Who would believe me?”

“Your lawyer, to start.”

“Ned Stark,” he growled around the syllables of the name. “When Stark came to interrogate me-”

“Question you,” Brienne tried to correct him softly.

“_Interrogate_,” Jaime snarled in reply, “He judged me guilty the moment he stepped foot in the room. He didn't want to hear my side of the story, because if he was to argue for my innocence he couldn't very well do that if I told him I was guilty, could he?”

“I- I don't-”

“I was, Brienne. I was guilty. I _am_.” He faced her again, and there was a fury that reached his eyes now. “It didn't matter that IAB approached _me _first or that I was set-up as their scapegoat. I _still_ shot him.” There was a finality to his voice when he added: “And I would do it all over again, if it meant he couldn't do what he had set out to do.”

She didn't know what to say, if there was anything she could possibly say at all, but Jaime saved her from having to reply when he bodily opened the passenger door and slammed it shut. She stared at the space he had just occupied, unsure if she should run after him, if she should apologize. If she should – she didn't know what.

Instead, she started her car, and glanced once more at his now empty space. It took her a moment to recognize the lump in the darkness, but she suddenly realized he had left his keys behind. She sighed, contemplating leaving him sitting outside his apartment door to stew in his fury, before she switched off the ignition and snatched the keys up.

She climbed three stories of the four story building before she found him. She didn't really think he would sit in front of his own apartment door, rather than coming back down and retrieving his keys, but there he was. He had his knees drawn up to his chest, his head hung low, and she almost wept at how childlike he looked.

She held out the keys on her fingers, letting them dangle and clash against one another, until he slowly lifted his head and took her in. He unhurriedly pulled himself off of the newspaper littered floor, and snatched the keys from her hand without a word.

Brienne had thought that he would unlock his door, go in, and slam it shut in her face. Instead, he let himself in, and then left the door opened behind him in a silent invitation. She took a moment, thought of the trust he had just put in her, and followed after. She closed it behind herself, locking it, and watched as he let himself into what she assumed was the bathroom by way of a door on the left.

The kitchen, if she could call it that, was on her right. It consisted of a fridge, a counter with a sink, and a rusted oven. There were two cabinets, but nothing else. She wandered a few more steps further into the apartment. Directly next to the stove was a small, circular table with two chairs. It was covered in unopened letters and bills. Past the dining table, with at least a foot or so of space between, sat a gray couch.

Across from the couch was a bed.

_His bed_.

It was unmade, and flanked by two end tables on either side. The end table on her right, closest to the paint-stripped wall, was littered with manila folders, loose papers, and a lone phone charger. The opposite one, closest to a closet door, held a small lamp, a pair of reading glasses, a half-full glass of water, and a once wadded-up brochure on adult classes for dyslexic people.

Intrigued, she picked it up and read its contents. She could hear Jaime in the bathroom, moving around, and waited a moment to see if he would come out. When he didn't, she set the brochure back down and opened the top drawer of the end table.

_He's trusting you_, she told herself, _And you're betraying that trust_.

But she glanced inside anyway. She could see a pack of condoms, expired when she looked closer, and a half-empty bottle of lube. There was also a framed photo, a spider crack emanating from the center, of a breathtakingly beautiful Jaime Lannister. He was in full uniform, freshly graduated from the police academy. He was painfully young, and so very happy. He was beaming, kneeling on one knee, his right arm wrapped around the shoulders of a much, much smaller boy. Although his hair was cropped short now, it was buzzed in the photo. It was a beacon of gold, rending the color of his hair nowadays almost ashy in comparison.

She gently placed the frame back into the drawer, and picked up a handheld tape recorder. A quick press of her thumb later, and Jaime's voice filtered out. He sounded quiet, and there was chatter and movement in the background. A few seconds of play revealed he was dictating notes. She glanced at the dyslexia brochure, stopped the recorder and placed it back in the drawer. A few loose photos caught her eye as she did.

She pulled them out, and rifled through them. They were mixed up in no particular order; some were of blonde children at various birthday parties, one of his father and himself at his academy graduation (Tywin wasn't smiling; Jaime's face tight. They were not embracing. They were shaking hands.) A few were of a blonde woman, in various motions at the aforementioned birthday parties. Then there was one, a close-up of Jaime's face, at one of the celebrations. He was smiling, but it was odd. Heated. Like one would smile at a lover.

And it was directed at the blonde.

Brienne swallowed around the lump in her throat. He had mentioned his brother, Tyrion, and his twin sister, Cersei. She had also heard rumors of his relationship with said twin during her time on the force. She hadn't paid it much mind before, having never met the blonde or seen the two interact with one another, but the look on his face in the photos in her hands... She turned the photo over, hoping beyond hope that the names scribbled on the other side didn't contain the one she didn't want to see.

But, her luck had run out the moment she invited Jaime out for drinks earlier that evening.

On the other side, in a familiarly messy, spaced-out scrawl she had come to know as Jaime's handwriting was one name: Cersei.

With a trembling hand, she made quick work of throwing the photos back into the drawer, and managed to shut it without a sound as Jaime emerged from the ridiculously short hallway and stood before her looking as if he had been put through the wringer.

_He caught me_, she thought.

“Drink?”

“What?”

He blinked at her. “Would you like a drink? I don't have much, but there's always beer.”

“No,” she shook her head, and stepped forward. “No, thank you. It's late, and we have work in the morning.” She brushed by him, trying not to stray too close in the suffocating confines of his studio apartment, and paused by his front door. “I'll-”

_What do you say to a man who has unburdened his soul to you_?

“I'll see you tomorrow.”

The devastated expression on his face told her that was the wrong thing to say. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC...  
Please Review.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please heed the "Now/Then" heading. The next two chapters will be in the present.

**NOW:**

* * *

_The morning after._

Brienne had decided to label their revealing conversation as such, as it was just as awkward and uncomfortable as having sex with her work partner would have been.

_Not that I would know_. _I'd prefer to have just fucked him_, she thought cravenly, _then at least it'd be awkward, but I'd have gotten off at least once_.

She thought of how smoothly he moved around the station house, and how fit he looked underneath all the black of their uniforms.

_Maybe more than once_.

As if conjured by the mere thought of himself, he appeared in the bullpen clutching a white paper bag in one hand and cradling a cup carrier with two large to-go cups in the other. She tried to meet his eyes from across the room, but he was quick to avert his head as he picked his way toward his desk, and unloaded his goodies. He reached into the bag, pulled out a puffy pastry with a napkin, and carefully pulled one of the cups from the carrier before making his way to her desk.

He cleared his throat, and placed the items next to her elbow.

“As a thank you,” he grumbled. “For yesterday.”

She gingerly picked up the cup, and relished the warmth it emitted. “A thank you?”

“For listening to a drunk man's bullshit.” His throat sounded closed off, and he had continued to dodge her searching gaze.

Brienne realized that he didn't think she believed him, and that saddened her. He made to move back toward his own work station, but Brienne snatched his wrist with her free hand, and stopped him. She quickly let go, and leaned forward. When she again sought out his eyes with her own, she held it.

“I believe you,” was all she said.

He let out a strangled noise.

“What the fuck was that?” Clegane demanded from a few yards away. He scowled in their direction, dark eyes narrowed in distrust, but returned to his work when no one replied.

Jaime cleared his throat again, the tips of his ears reddened in embarrassment, and chewed on his lower lip. Unbidden tears rendered his eyes glassy. He nodded once, took a deep, steadying breath, and nodded once more. She watched as his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly.

“Thank you,” he whispered back.

This time when he turned to leave, he made his way toward the back of the station, where the locker room and restrooms were located. She let him go.

* * *

Brienne rested her aching head in the palm of her propped up hand. She had been staring at her computer screen for the better part of an hour, and yet nothing seemed to be jumping out at her. In her mind a litany of _Littlefinger, Bloody Mummers, girls, Casterly Rock _circled around her otherwise blank mind. Frustrated, she abruptly pushed her chair back, and entered the break room.

She opened the communal fridge, and glared at its contents as if they had personally offended her. She scanned the yellow post-it notes taped to each one, trying to find her loopy handwriting on one of them, when a neat one caught her eye: Baelish.

“I didn't realize my tuna salad sandwich was that interesting,” a silky voice wondered from over her shoulder.

She slammed the fridge door shut, and turned to face the source. She was unsurprised to see Baelish standing in the open doorway, thumbs tucked into the band of his utility belt. He had that funny little smile on his face. It was like a permanent smirk, like he constantly knew something that you didn't know. It unnerved her.

“Baelish,” she greeted curtly.

“Petyr,” he corrected. He crept further into the room. “You seemed intent to stay with the CRD, so we might as well be on friendly terms. I do wonder, though,” he trailed off and raked his eyes over her tall form, “What you're doing here.”

“Getting lunch?” She supplied, but she knew that wasn't what he meant.

His smirk widened further.

“I think we both know what I meant, Brienne.” He tilted his dark-haired head to the side. “May I call you Brienne?” He took another step forward. It was so smooth, so silent, it was as if he gliding on ice. “What I was referring to was to how you found yourself with the CRD. It's not well known for hosting a squad of reputable cops. And yet,” he pulled his hands away from his belt to motion toward her, “Here you are.”

“Are you not honorable yourself then?”

“Are you?” He took one last step, and leaned forward. They were still several feet apart, but his voice didn't carry out of the room as he cryptically added: “We're birds of a feather, you and I.”

She furrowed her brow in confusion, but had no reply.

Baelish met her eyes, his beady pupils seemingly staring into the deepest recesses of her soul, before he stepped back with a flourished bow, and swept out of the room as quietly as he had entered.

Brienne mulled over his last statement. It struck her as familiar. Then it struck her like a bolt; she needed to speak to someone outside of the precinct. Someone that knew the coming-and-goings of certain people, who knew the city inside and out, but wasn't a cop.

Someone like Varys.

She stepped out into the bullpen, Baelish nowhere to be seen, and called her partner's name. He looked up from his dark corner, and warily perked a golden brow.

“We need to go see an old friend.”

* * *

Jaime sighed as he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel of the squad car.

“I should have known,” he muttered. “I don't have any friends.”

“Rude,” Brienne japed, before resuming her search through the passenger window. “How can a guy dressed so ludicrously not stand out?”

“It's Varys,” Jaime said with a roll of his eyes that she felt, rather than saw. “The little spider is probably-”

“Right there!”

Jaime slammed on the brakes with a curse. Brienne was already out of the door before he could properly pull the car over, and park it. He cursed again, and scrambled to unbuckle his belt and follow after her. She was halfway down the block, ducking down an alley, when he caught up with her.

“You have _got_ to stop doing that,” he growled.

“I'll think about it.”

“You were looking for me?” Varys questioned as he stepped out from behind a dumpster.

Brienne blinked. “How did you know?”

Varys turned to Jaime expectantly, and Jaime scratched the back of his head. “There's a removable spider decal we put on the cruiser when we want to flush him out.”

“You can't have possibly seen that!”

“I have eyes everywhere, my dear.”

“Do your eyes have ears too?”  
Varys cocked his head to the side, and splayed his hands out to the side.

Brienne continued: “Have any of your _friends_ heard of a man called Littlefinger?”

The other man smothered an amused smile. “Of course, dear. Who hasn't?”

Jaime shifted next to her, his blue eyes trained at the mouth of the alley at their exposed backs. She trusted him to keep lookout as she asked Varys if his cohorts heard of any movement from Littlefinger.

The soft man conceded with another tilt of his head, “I did hear some whispers about a man calling himself by that name claiming to be making his way here. To Casterly Rock.”

“Why would someone so sought out blatantly put his next move out like that?” Brienne wondered aloud.

“Maybe it's a decoy,” Jaime chimed in.

“Maybe,” Varys murmured. He took a step forward. “I've been here too long. If you have need of my services again, reach out.” He placed something in Jaime's hand, who frowned down at it, and disappeared into an oddly timed rush of people on the sidewalk.

Brienne motioned toward the slip of paper he unfurled. “What's it say?”

Jaime looked pale, but he offered her a smile. “Nothing of import.” He pocketed the paper, and glanced down at his bare left wrist. “Looks like it's time to clock out. How about drinks on me?” He held up both of his hands as if to placate her. “No more deep, dark secrets.” He joked, but Brienne could tell he was lying. “I don't have any left to to tell anyway.”

Now she _knew_ he was lying.

_Cersei._

She figured she could ply him with alcohol and get him to share some stories of their fellow officers, one or two in particular, so she agreed to drinks, and followed him out of the alley. But as they buckled themselves into the squad car, Jaime offering to stop at her place first so she could change out of her uniform, his cell went off with a ping that indicated it was a text.

He read it, and apologized. “Sorry, O'Tarth. Change of plans. I'll drop you at the station, so you can grab your car. We'll have to reschedule the drinks.”

Though suspicious of his behavior, Brienne had no choice but to go along with it. Her suspicions were confirmed when, several minutes after he had dropped her off, he sent her a text with an address located on the outskirts of town.

_What are you doing, Lannister?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC...  
Please Review.


	11. Chapter 11

**NOW:**

* * *

Barreling down the street at a speed that he would normally pull people over for, Jaime risked another glance at the address displayed on his cell phone. He knew it was a risk, going to this place alone and without backup, but there was only one person he trusted to have his back, and he couldn't bear it if something happened to her just because he was half-cocked and stupid.

_She's half-cocked too_, he grumpily thought. He could picture her broad back fleeing from his still moving squad car not even an hour before.

_I believe you_, she had said just that morning.

Jaime forwarded the address to her number before he could back out, then pressed the gas pedal to the floor a little harder.

The note burned in his pocket: _Robert knows._

He could feel his pulse pounding against his temples as the words leapt about in his head as easily as they did when he tried to read them on paper.

_Robert knows_.

He felt the prickle of sweat against the nape of his neck. _Robert knows and I was going to nonchalantly have drinks with my partner. As if nothing was wrong. _

He told himself it was to maintain some semblance of normality; possibly a set-up to unburden his soul with yet another deep, dark vile secret upon his hapless partner. Robert may know, may be aware of the depravity between brother and sister, but the man wouldn't do anything to them.

_Would he_?

_No. What could a stag do to a lion?_

Then the text appeared: _We need to meet. Now_.

It wasn't a number he recognized, but he wouldn't have put it past Robert to have an extra phone or two for his own philandering. If Robert wanted to meet the man cuckolding him, face-to-face, in some undisclosed location- Well, Jaime had no illusions as to what may happen when he arrived, but the moment between the two men was a long time coming.

Soon enough, he made the turn-off to a long, windy road that led to a looming apartment complex. It had been an ambitious undertaking, several years before, trying to revamp the condemned building and turn it into affordable housing for the lower class residents. It had ultimately proved too much work, and too costly, and was quickly left to the cockroaches and rats.

The complex, named _Valyria Park_, was made up of three visibly decaying buildings and surrounded by a chain link fence; rusted and barely set in the ground from the way it moved at the slightest breeze. It was like an island, secluded so far away from the main road like an unwanted sore.

And an eyesore it was. The gray-brown tint of the windows barely reflected the sunlight, so covered in a thick layer of dust. Some of the windows were completely absent, others just missing jagged pieces of glass. Those glittered up from the dry, brown grass and crunched underneath his boots as he cautiously stepped forward.

Jaime had his weapon in his hands, the gunmetal warm and a comfortable weight in his calloused palms. He scanned his immediate surroundings, noting nothing unusual, before looking up at the peeling numbers painted above the wood-chipped double doors of each building.

_3-33 _was the apartment number. The third building, boasting a faded _3 _on the side, and the numbers _23-33_ over the entrance seemed to be the obvious choice. He swiftly moved forward, knees slightly bent to make his tall body less of a bouncy target. He had to climb a set of four stairs made of crumbling concrete before reaching the door. He pulled the knob, and slipped his fingers into the crack, pulling the door back from the frame quickly and quietly.

Nothing but darkness greeted him. He would have swept the shadowed corners for threats, but the first level of the apartment revealed only a lone, closed door straight ahead and a disintegrating wooden stairwell leading to the second floor right directly next to it.

He kept his weapon pointed in front of him, but his eyes trained up the stairs. He cautiously took a step, feeling the wood creak under his weight, and figured that if he didn't linger and instead just jogged up as quickly as possible, then the wood wouldn't have a chance to absorb his weight.

Jaime used his left hand to fish out his cell from his front pocket, checking to see how long after he had dropped Brienne off at the station before he sent her the address. He felt comfortable believing she wouldn't be too far behind him, should he fall through the stairs. So with held breath, he ran up, wincing as something audibly cracked below him.

Once at the top, both hands once again wrapped around the butt of his pistol, he took a moment to glance at the closed door there. A small, dusty window revealed a vestibule with nothing in it but four closed doors. He concluded that those must've have led to their actual apartments themselves. He took a step back, cautious of the thin banister behind him, and peered up the next flight of steps.

A sudden rush of pain seized him just as a brawny armed wrapped around his neck. The thick appendage throttled him as he struggled to pry it away from his throat with one hand as he turned his pistol backward with the other, attempting to aim at an enemy he couldn't see. He fired off a blind round, striking only plaster, but effectively deafening himself in his right ear.

“Fuck!” He choked out.

Jaime threw his weight back, hoping to propel their tangled bodies into the wall, but hadn't noticed that they had twisted around in their struggle. He realized his grave error in judgment when the banister he had warily eyed earlier crumpled like a piece of paper under their combined weight. He could feel his eyes bug out of his head in petrified fear as he futilely tried to throw his hands out in the hopes of catching a hold of something secure. The arm around his neck blessedly loosened as they fell, and allowed him one last piercing inhale before they plummeted to the floor below.

Where he struck his head on the ground with an audible crack, and instantly rendered himself unconscious.

* * *

Jaime came to with a sharp gasp; limbs straining against thick bands of ropes. He let loose a beleaguered moan of pain, his head absolutely throbbing, and his right hand pulsing to the beat of his heart in piercing agony. He scrunched up his face, eyes already squeezed tightly closed, and fought a wave of nausea. He panted; his breath reflected off the floor he had his cheek pressed against, and left his stubbled jaw damp.

It took a few moments before Jaime thought he could open his eyes. When he did, he was greeted by a cockroach scuttling by, so close to his face that he could hear it's little legs scraping against the floor.

“Finally,” a voice called out. It sounded wet, as if the owner couldn't quite control his tongue. “Never thought I'd be happy to thee you awake, Lannithter.”

_Fucking Hoat_, Jaime realized in a rush of icy fear. _He's not here as back-up, is he?_

“Hoat,” he croaked out loud. He tried to peel his eyelids back further, meaning to take in more of his filthy surroundings, but the pain in his hand had him slamming his eyes shut once more. The overwhelming nausea caused saliva to pool into his partially opened mouth, where some dribbled down the side of his cheek.

He managed to open his eyes again, squinting at a pair of trouser-clad legs that led up to familiar smirk outlined by a goatee. “Baelish.”

“Tho, you're not completely fucking brain dead.” Hoat cackled.

_Where's Robert?_

Jaime craned his neck, wincing at the slice of pain through his skull, and caught sight of a third man he didn't recognize. He frowned. “And who in the fuck are you?”

Baelish laughed softly. He was still in uniform, his thumbs safely tucked behind the band of his utility belt like always. “That is Littlefinger,” he said with a small smile. “Or, rather, that is who he is pretending to be. You see, _I'm_ Littlefinger.”

_Jesus._

“You little fucker,” Jaime snarled before closing his eyes. “All this time. You were there, under our noses, all this time.”

“I have,” Baelish admitted uselessly. “And I believe my Bloody Mummers could have set permanent roots here, in Casterly Rock, that's how incompetent you lot are. How blind.” Then he _tsked_ to himself, almost in annoyance. “But then Brienne O'Tarth had to show up and ruin everything.”

“O'Tarth?”

_Brienne_, Jaime thought. She should be here soon.

“Hm, yes. Brienne. How much do you know of your partner, Lannister? Did you ever wonder why someone as golden and honorable as her was assigned to our unit? Why a patrol officer was so interested in my lot, outside of the obvious?

_Why _was _Brienne assigned to CRD? _

“She was planted there,” Baelish growled. Suddenly, his voice wasn't so silky. “I admit, I overreached by taking Sansa Stark. It was a personal move; my futile attempt to get back at her mother for choosing Ned Stark over me.” He sighed wistfully, as if thinking of Catelyn Tully, and Jaime had to stifle the litany of questions he had.

_Sansa Stark was kidnapped? Baelish knows Tully? What did he mean Brienne was planted?_

“You weren't meant to get involved. Not initially. I understand you're O'Tarth's partner, but there was no need to lure you here just to remove your tow-headed pest. But Dany, oh sweet Dany. Her taste for vengeance is almost as strong as mine.”

Jaime's head was spinning, and he wondered if he was feeling faint because of the information overload or if he was losing blood. He figured the blow to the head probably didn't help matters. He felt airy, as if he could float away at any moment. Baelish was still prattling on.

“I couldn't get my hands on Sansa Stark through any old means. The girl is the product of a powerful couple. So, I pulled a few strings, and called in a favor. Only, Dany Targaryen doesn't do favors. She trades. Something for something. I wanted Sansa Stark, and she wanted _you_.”

Baelish could have been leering down at him at this point, for all Jaime could tell, but he couldn't be bothered to open his eyes.

“Catelyn Tully wouldn't let the disappearance of her daughter go without a fight, of course. My beautiful, feisty redhead. So, she pulled some strings of her own. Bought herself a few weeks of time before anyone came sniffing at her door with questions.”  
_That explains why Sansa's kidnapping isn't front page news right now_.

“She recruited the best bloodhound on her team, and sent that bloodhound on a hunt. A certain tall, freakishly large blonde.”

_Brienne_, Jaime wanted to sob. _She lied to me. She's been working for the FBI this entire time. Using me to get to my contacts. Using me like the IAB once used me. She was going to hang me out to dry, and I'm going to be the FBI's scapegoat all over again._

Jaime did let out a soft cry at that, curling into himself as far as his bound arms allowed him to.

“Lannister?”

That voice froze the occupants of the room. It wasn't from either of the men within, and while deeper than most it was distinctly feminine.

“Brienne?” he called out.

_I believe you_.

“Brienne! They're armed!”

A boot stomped down at his exposed side, and he felt the give of one of his ribs. He couldn't quite catch his breath, but used the last reserves of his energy to sweep his attacker off of his feet. The maneuver toppled over the Littlefinger impostor, and Jaime tried to use the dwindling vestiges of his adrenaline to get himself up to his feet, but then Baelish entered the room with Brienne at gunpoint, and Jaime's body gave out at the sight.

He didn't even see the slimy weasel leave. The Littlefinger impostor yanked Jaime up to his feet, hacking away at his bound arms and legs until he was able to bring his arms forward. He had no strength to stand on his own, much less attack; relying solely on the impostor's firm grip on the back of his aching neck for support.

"Do that again," Hoat drooled from across the room, "And we'll do far worse to your other hand than you managed to do yourself."

“_Other_ hand?” Jaime echoed, aware of how faraway his own voice sounded to his ears.

“Jaime,” Brienne called out in a hushed tone of voice.

_Oh, _Jaime thought dreamily, _That's the first time I heard her say my name._

And then he looked down, and saw it. Protruding from his right hand was a shaft of splintered wood. It was at least two inches in width; punctured through the base of his fleshy palm at an angle, and sticking several inches out at its highest point. A thin stream of blood trickled from the entry point, but the wound was effectively plugged up by the object. He blinked muzzily at the grotesque sight, and was once again flooded by absolute agony emanating from the appendage.

He stumbled, the anchoring hand at his neck removing itself, and then he screamed.

He welcomed the sudden darkness of unconsciousness as a reprieve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC...  
Please Review.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I apologize for the delay. The reason in short? Extended work hours, plus class, dog-sitting, and a (scary) laptop crash.

**THEN:**

* * *

Catelyn Tully anxiously fiddled with the loose diamond on her silver wedding band. The loose rock was a minor issue, a decidedly small inconvenience considering her field of work and the fact that she was the mother to a brood of five, but it was just another _thing _to worry about. Although, that particular worry wasn't actually on the forefront of her mind; in fact, she hadn't even noticed the rock was loose until her employee pointed it out. Now, she couldn't seem to stop touching it.

“Ma'am?”

She lifted her bright blue eyes to meet an equally colored pair. The pair that met hers, however, were filled with concern.

“I'm sorry,” she hoarsely replied.

The concern shifted from the younger woman's eyes to the furrowed ridge between her brows. Catelyn watched as the pale hairs bunched as the skin between puckered and deepened.

“It's going to be okay.”

Catelyn felt her own brows pulling downward into a scowl.

“I promise you, ma'am, I'll find her.”

“Yes,” she found herself saying back. “Yes, you will.”

But even as she affirmed the spoken vow, she could feel her very soul aching as the verifiable truth struck her again: Sansa, her eldest daughter, was missing. Catelyn had been so busy with her caseload, and Ned had been deeply embroiled in dealing with a paternity battle involving his old friend, and somehow their beautiful, innocent child was caught in someone's dark web.

In the grand scheme of things, it was ironic that the head of the Missing Person's Department now had a missing person of her own. The list grew longer with each passing year, and the cries and demands of their fathers, mothers, sisters and brothers echoed in Catelyn's head: where are they? She refused to become one of those voices.

She knew that if she did this, if she pulled the figurative trigger, that she would have to forsake her entire career. It wasn't a choice that she had to give much thought on, if any at all; she would give her life to safely bring her daughter home. In deciding her course of action, she knew she could trust no one more than she could her best field agent: Brienne O'Tarth. The younger woman had initially balked at the illegality of her personal request, but Catelyn knew her agent well, and she implored to Brienne's sense of duty and honor. While the younger woman was visibly hesitant to abuse the system for personal gain, she crumbled under the agreed provision that Catelyn resigned upon Sansa's return.

Catelyn could only answer to Brienne's acceptance with a watery smile. “Maybe it's time for me to finally go home and be with my family.”

It had taken a long two weeks before Brienne approached her with any news: Sansa, under the username 'little_byrd,' had been messaging two suspicious accounts via social media.

“It took a little bit of work,” Brienne had said, “But we managed to track down the IP addresses for 'mockingjay' and 'hound_12.'” She had pushed the typed Intel across a glass tabletop toward Catelyn, but continued on: “Sergeant Sandor Clegane of the CRD. We believe he's using two different accounts, as 'mockingjay's' IP is coming from the CRD building itself, but 'hound_12' was traced directly back to Clegane's home address.”

“Not very smart.”

“No,” Brienne had agreed.

_You had great form the other day, _read one exchange from the hound_12 to her daughter. The following messages between them seemed to focus solely on her physicality. While no particular message seemed salacious in nature, the sickening feeling in Catelyn's stomach intensified.

_Little_byrd? We must be birds of a feather, _mockingjay had sent. The messages between that account and Sansa seemed innocent; almost child-like and naive as the two learned of one another likes and dislikes, talked of their daily routines, and their wishes for the future.

“These are from the same man?” Catelyn had asked.

“Maybe he's treading carefully at work?”

It took another week before Brienne returned with news from Gendry's interview with him: Sandor Clegane was teaching self-defense classes that Sansa was relatively new to. The intent behind his messages now made sense: he was talking about his classes. The bruise on Gendry's jaw showed how Clegane hadn't taken too kindly at being accused of doing the girl harm.

Once, while Brienne had pored over what few facts she had managed to gather, softly discussing them aloud with Gendry, Catelyn overheard a familiar name: “Did you say Baelish? As in Petyr Baelish?”

They had stared at her in mirrored confusion, until she had sat across from the pair and told them of his futile infatuation with her when they were younger. She was adamant that he had nothing to do with this. He would have loved Sansa like she was his own, because she was Catelyn Tully's daughter. It was only a coincidence that he worked at the same division as Clegane. They agreed.

Then another girl disappeared from the same area.

Then another.

Catelyn had informed Brienne that she was being sent undercover to the CRD to ascertain the facts of their current situation. Later, that same evening, Brienne had just compiled a loose backstory when she had pushed herself away from her computer to inform Catelyn that _the_ Jaime Lannister, a former employee at the very bureau they worked at, also happened to be working at the very epicenter of their case.

“What are the odds?”

Brought back to the present, Catelyn stopped twisting her wedding band, and met Brienne's unwavering stare once more.

The pale blonde lifted a broad hand, and ticked off the facts finger-by-finger: “Clegane has been messaging Sansa. Clegane works with the CRD, the very division where you happen to have a personal connection to not only one of the officers there, but the Kingslayer too? And all the while, girls are going missing left and right. What's the connection?”

“What is the connection indeed.” Catelyn lowered her gaze to her ring finger, and smiled sadly. “Whatever it may be, I have no doubt you will find it, and that you will bring my daughter home.”

Brienne's larger hand reached out, but settled atop the glass desk instead. “They won't get away with this, ma'am.”

Catelyn agreed with a slight cant of her head.

But deep down, something inside her told her that these clues were red herrings.

There was something dark and insidious happening in Casterly Rock, and it wasn't just mere coincidences. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC.  
Please Review.


	13. Chapter 13

**NOW:**

* * *

Consciousness seemed impossible to grasp.

Jaime would slowly come to, the blurry world around him a burst of blinding white, before the weight of his eyelids dragged him under and he retreated back to the welcoming darkness.

The second time he tried to swim back to the surface, he thought he had seen the distinct outline of his curly headed brother. The stocky figure had been sitting next to him, thumbing through a colossal novel, but Jaime rendered the image a figment of his imagination and succumbed again.

The third time, there were unfamiliar voices wafting over him. A gloved finger pulled at his eyelid, having peeled the greasy skin back before doing the same to the other. Jaime had tried to recoil, but his heavy limbs did not cooperate.

The final time he came to, Tyrion loomed at his left side with a poor excuse of a smile.

“Welcome back.”

Jaime owlishly blinked at his younger brother. He swallowed the little saliva he had in his mouth, and pushed his head back. A pillow cushioned his aching skull, and he sighed. He closed his eyes. They felt gritty.

“What happened?” He didn't miss how hoarse he sounded.

“That's what I should be asking you,” Tyrion replied in amusement, “But your lovely partner already filled me in.” The smaller man clambered into a chair that had been pushed close to Jaime's side, and twiddled his stubby thumbs. “It seems you and Miss Brienne are responsible for bringing down the infamous Littlefinger, and his merry band of Bloody Mummers.”

“How?”

“I recorded everything,” a voice broke in from his right side.

Jaime gingerly opened his eyes, and glanced askance to the towering form seated there.

“I don't understand.”

Brienne glanced across Jaime's prone form, and met his brother's eyes. She had so many things to tell Jaime, so many things to fill him in on, but there was one pressing matter that needed to be addressed first. Tyrion nodded gravely, and then reached forward to take Jaime's left hand in his own.

Startled, Jaime looked down at their clasped fingers.

“Jaime,” Tyrion took a deep breath, “You suffered a serious head injury. Do you recall that?”

He nodded slowly.

“You've been in a coma for two weeks.”

“I-” Jaime grimaced. “How? I woke up afterward.”

“You were also seriously concussed,” Tyrion admonished. “And we think that when you incurred that injury, you also received a rather nasty gift.” The smaller man stared pointedly at Jaime's right arm. Jaime tried to clench the fingers of his right hand as he recalled the piece of wood that had punctured it. Nothing happened. Tyrion quickly rushed through the rest of his explanation as Jaime frantically tried to pull his arm out from under the blanket it was covered by.

“The doctor said the wood severed your ulnar flexor tendon,” Tyrion hurriedly said, “Which would have been possible to repair with surgery, but the wood _itself _fragmented into splinters; they were too small and too many, Jaime, and the doctors tried their best – They really did, but the wound became septic, and the best option was to remove the hand entirely.”

Jaime stared in horror at his right hand. Or at the space where his right hand should have been. He raised his maimed arm to his eyes; chapped lips parted and blue eyes wide in shock.

“My hand,” he croaked, “Where the _fuck_ is my hand?”

The leftover stump was wrapped in several layers of thick gauze.

“I'm so sorry,” Brienne said, but she was sure he wasn't listening.

“As soon as you're able, we're going to see someone about fitting you with a prosthetic,” Tyrion added in an attempt to sooth his brother. “They are quite versatile and fully functional in this day and age.”

“I'm a fucking cop,” Jaime hissed as he snapped his face toward his brother. “They won't let me stay on with a _fucking prosthetic hand_.” His chest rose and fell rapidly under his heavy breathing. “How?” He turned to face Brienne. “What _happened_?”

Brienne blinked. “I got there as fast as I could.”

“How did we get out?” Jaime ground out from behind clenched teeth. His maimed arm was still raised in between them.

She perked a pale brow. “I called for back-up before arriving there. As _you_ should have done.” She ignored the look of warning Tyrion shot her.

“_You_ were my back-up.” He felt so damned tired, but he needed to know everything. “You work for the FBI. Catelyn Tully hired you to find Sansa.” It lilted like a question, so Brienne nodded in affirmation.

“Abusing her power like that?” Jaime snarled mockingly. “She should be fired.”

“She resigned a few days ago.”

Jaime managed to look surprised at that. His thin lips visibly pursed through his beard.

“She promised she would once Sansa was found and returned home.”

“And was she?”

The maimed arm was gingerly lowered to his lap.

_He' going to ignore it's gone_, she realized. _He's going to pretend everything is fine. _She met Tyrion's heavy gaze. _And he _still_ doesn't know. _

“Yes,” she informed him softly. “Baelish folded under Clegane's persuasive, um, _interrogation_. He claimed to have no intention to drug and sell her. He wanted to keep her for himself. But she's back home now, with her family, where she belongs.”

Brienne produced a black tape recorder, and held it up for him to see. “When we were there, while you were unconscious, I managed to get the whole story out of Baelish. Including the involvement of Daenerys Targaryen.”

“A recorder?” Jaime frowned. “Where in the hell did you get the idea for that?”

“From you.” At his perplexed raise of an eyebrow, she continued carefully, “When we went out for drinks the other night – _that _night - I came up to your apartment.” At his nod of remembrance, she continued, “When you were in the bathroom, I went through your end stand, and saw a tape recorder.”

The previously perked eyebrow was now furrowed in a deep scowl. “Amongst other things, I'm sure.” His voice was full of heat, but his eyes did not meet hers.

“Yes,” she admitted, “But it gave me an idea. I bought one for myself, and then you started to act off when Varys gave you that note, and _then_ you canceled our plans before sending me an address...I brought it along. I figured it couldn't hurt, and Baelish was only too happy to recount his entire story all over again; he figured out who I truly worked for, and just wanted to gloat. Fortunately for us all.”

Jaime let out a tired sigh.

“You went through my things,” he muttered. “After I told you my deepest secret.”

“Yes,” she repeated. Her large blue eyes were apologetic, but he didn't look up to see them.

_But that's not your deepest secret_.

Brienne mouthed a silent apology to Tyrion, who accepted with a dip of his head.

“I saw everything. Including the photos of you. And your family.”

Jaime's heart stuttered in his aching chest.

“My family.” He had crafted a careful air in his voice, but it faltered under her piercing stare.

“You, Tyrion. Your sister, and her children.” She took a deep breath, and added, “_Your_ children, I think.”

“I don't-” He swallowed thickly. He felt dizzy. Tyrion's hand around his tightened.

“There have been rumors going on for years, Jaime. People on the force talk, and I work at a federal agency.” She paused. “And I found the note from Varys in your pocket, when we brought you here.”

_Robert knows._

“He was warning you.”

Jaime's face crumpled. “I've been _here_,” Jaime claimed mournfully, “And Robert _knows_.”

“The children are safe, brother,” Tyrion informed him gently.

“I'm so sorry, but Cersei is dead.” Brienne figured the worst of the news should come from her. “Robert killed her before we could get there in time, but she managed to get him too.”

_Cersei_. _My golden Cersei_.

He took a deep, shuddering breath.

Then he saw his wrapped up stump, and his weak attempt at trying to stifle all of his emotions broke out in a wet, body-racking sob. He pulled his left hand out from Tyrion's soft grip, and held it to his face, trying to curl his bruised body into itself and disappear from the pitying stares of the others.

“Get out,” he managed between another shuddering sob.

“Jaime-”

“Get the fuck out!”

Tyrion waddled around the bed, and gently touched Brienne's shoulder. She stood, cast one last look at Jaime's shaking, curled up form, and sighed. She followed him out as Jaime's sobs rang in her ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC...  
Please Review.


	14. Chapter 14

**NOW:**

* * *

_Cersei_ _is dead. She is dead._

_ She is me, and I am her, and she is dead._

_ I am dead._

Jaime stared fixedly at nothing. His maimed arm lie on a pile of blankets that were strewn across his legs. He couldn't look at it. Wouldn't. Because it wasn't real. None of it was real.

_It's not real._

_ She is me._

_ I am her._

_ And fuck everyone who isn't us. _

“Is that so?” Tyrion's voice cut in from the doorway. Though startled that he had apparently spoken aloud, Jaime didn't bother to turn his head. He knew the smaller man would barge his way in anyway. He had been doing so for the last week; since he and Brienne shattered his world. “I daresay, I feel a little offended.”

“Fuck off,” Jaime muttered, but it was without malice. He was finding it harder and harder to scrounge up the anger. He just felt an exhaustion that settled deep into the marrow of his aching bones.

“I will not,” Tyrion said as he crossed the room. He pulled his usual chair up to Jaime's bedside, purposely allowing the metal legs to scratch and screech noisily along the floor. “I've brought a gift.”

Jaime kept his steady gaze on the blank wall before him.

“Well, it's not much of a gift, but rather some good news.”

Internally, Jaime mockingly snorted. Externally, he didn't allow his face to betray his roiling emotions. He was hurting; wounded and grieved in a way that his brother could never fully understand. But Tyrion was trying, despite Jaime's best efforts to keep him firmly shut out.

“We've got you an appointment-”

“If you mention the fucking prosthetic again, I _will _scream.”

Tyrion perked a dark brow at the dry threat, then smirked. “Now that would be interesting, brother, but I've no desire to fend off a liege of doctors rushing to find out the source of said scream.”

“Then _don't_ mention _it_.”

“Fine,” Tyrion sighed heavily. He wagged a stubby finger in the air. “But when Brienne comes to pick you up in the next hour, do not be surprised to find yourself in the middle of a fitting for this item we shan't speak of again.”

Finally, Jaime canted his head toward his brother.

“Why?”

“You've lost a hand, Jaime. It's not the end of the world. You'll get a much cooler one.”

“Why Brienne?”

Tyrion paused at that. He sat back in his seat, his legs swinging before him as they couldn't reach the ground. “She wanted to. She's grown rather attached to you-”

“She feels guilty, more like,” Jaime spat. And it felt good to feel the anger again. It flowed away just as quickly as it had ebbed into his voice, but it was something other than the all-encompassing numbness that had begun to settle over him.

“I'm sure she does,” Tyrion tried slowly. “But I wouldn't presume to know how she feels other than that.” He cleared his throat, and looked up from underneath his lashes. “She also could have been back to work as of three days ago, yet she's been here by your side.”

“I didn't ask her to.” Jaime furrowed his brow as he shook his head. “I don't want her to.”

Tyrion studied him; took in his lean form with his sharp cheeks and strong jaw. The shadows underneath his eyes lent him an even more gaunt look. The hospital food didn't seem to be settling well with his older brother, and Tyrion said as much, in the hopes of ignoring the can of worms that was Jaime's relationship with Brienne.

Jaime rolled his eyes at the subject change. “It's edible,” he huffed, then lifted his arm to scratch at the dark gold beard on his jaw, before he froze.

Tyrion winced, but Jaime just sighed dejectedly, and settled his arm back on his legs again.

He pointed his gaze toward the same spot on the wall as before.

“When do I get to leave?”

“After your fitting.” Tyrion scrunched up his face as he fought to find the courage to add: “Brienne will be making sure you get home safely.”

Jaime lowered his chin to his chest, and let loose a slow exhale. He closed his eyes, and Tyrion thought he would be pinching the bridge of his nose if he had the means to do so. Instead, his left hand twitched by his side, as though forgotten.

“I don't want to see her afterward.”

“Brother-”

“No, Tyrion.” Jaime reopened his eyes, and met Tyrion's green pair. “I'll allow her to get me home, as I can hardly see you helping me up the stairs, but then that's it. I _do not _want to see her again.”

“I understand,” but the words were not coming from Tyrion's parted lips. Jaime twisted his upper half around to see Brienne lingering in the doorway.

He opened his mouth, to offer an apology he supposed, but the words dried up in his throat. He grimaced, and shook his head. He didn't want to apologize. She used him; lied to him. She listened as he bared his soul to her, and she replied by going through his personal belongings.

That in itself would have been forgivable, such a simple, stupid act, but to have have it compounded with the knowledge that she was never truly his partner- She was there to serve a purpose that didn't involve him, that involved the _very_ people that had used and abused him and so very easily set him aside to the curb at his father's whim.

He could emplace his trust in her again. He could. But what use was this trust if it could flagrantly be bent and broken so easily?

Jaime grunted lowly to himself.

_I'm just as dramatic as...as Cersei. _

“Good,” was what he ground out instead. Again, the anger was a relief. “Let's get this damn fitting over with. The sooner we get it done, the sooner you get me home, the sooner I don't have to see you anymore.” He threw off the blankets that encased his legs with his left hand, staunchly ignoring the hurt look writ across Brienne's face.

“Jaime, please-”

“No, Tyrion. It's quite all right.”

The younger man scrunched his pert nose, and opened his mouth once again to protest Jaime's treatment of Brienne, but he realized that anything else he could possibly say would be cut short again. He rolled his eyes, and sat back in his seat.

Brienne thanked him with a polite smile. She was out of the all-black uniform of the CRD, and wearing a navy blue pantsuit that did very nice things to her bright eyes. Tyrion noticed that Jaime did everything he could in his power to avoid meeting said eyes. His jaw was clenched so tight, that Tyrion feared he would fracture a tooth.

Jaime snatched a pair of folded jeans off from a small table in the corner of the room. He held them out in his left hand, then looked down at the hospital gown he currently wore. His lean body was taut with tension, visibly trembling as he stared down at the garment, then he looked up and Tyrion could see the devastation on his face.

“Jaime-” Tyrion slid off the chair as fast as he was able. “It's okay. It will be all right, brother. Here, let me hold them for you.”

Brienne stepped out into the hall, knowing her former partner wouldn't want her to bear witness to his struggle. She could hear as Tyrion shushed his older brother, as he fumbled to hold the jeans out so that Jaime could step into them.

“Lean over,” Tyrion had said next, and she could hear the rustle of the gown as he presumably pulled it over Jaime's shoulders. “It will take time, Jaime. Just give it some time.”

A soft, wet inhale through nostrils was all Brienne could hear in reply.

Finally, Tyrion cleared his throat, and Brienne turned back round and reentered the room. Jaime stood off to the side, head lowered as though he were ashamed, but he was at least fully clothed. She looked down at his feet, wondering if they had bothered with anything other than the hospital slippers. To her surprise, he was wearing a pair of brown boots, although the strings were tucked in rather than tied.

“You look-” He lifted his head sharply, daring her to continue. She swallowed the lump in her throat, and pushed on. “You look better.”

He didn't. He looked thin; a former shell of the once glorious, golden lion he was. The man before her was a far cry from the man blowing a puff a smoke in her face not so long ago. He knew it. She knew it. He knew that she knew it.

“Let's just go,” he mumbled. He hesitated a moment, before bending over and embracing his brother with his left arm. She thought she heard a murmured _thank you, _but he was already pushing himself away and striding toward the door.

“I'll call you later,” Brienne offered the smaller man. He waved her away with one hand.

“Don't worry about that. Just get him home, and get _yourself_ back in one piece.”

They shared a sad, wry smile between them before Brienne turned and followed her charge down the bustling hospital hallway.

“Keep up, O'_Tarth_,” Jaime called over his shoulder as he charged forward. His voice was tight, but edged with a playful tint. Maliciously playful. “If they're in your way, just push them aside with those disgustingly broad shoulders.”

Brienne sighed, and steeled herself.

_The lion still has claws._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC...  
Please Review.


	15. Chapter 15

**NOW:**

* * *

The fitting for Jaime's new hand was a solemn, quiet affair. He endured the rather brusque manhandling by the elderly doctor with pinched features, and flared nostrils, but offered no more than a discernible grunt or curt dip of his head when prodded for audible answers to clipped questions.

Brienne had to stop herself on more than one occasion from asking the doctor to at least _pretend_ to show some compassion towards his maimed patient. Instead, she folded her long arms over her meager bosom and took in the entire affair in a mixture of forced apathy, but internal sympathy.

She winced as the doctor had practically forced the still-healing stub of Jaime's forearm into a cloth material that seemed abrasive to the sensitive, scarred skin. Still, her former partner took in the pain with only a jaw seized in closed-mouth teeth gnashing and a fevered brightness in his eyes, but no uttered words.

She wondered if Jaime was enduring the entire affair as he was because he felt he deserved the pain or simply because he had given up fighting. She also didn't know which option seemed the better one.

After the appointment, when they had buckled themselves into her car and she was ready to pull away from the curb, she rifled through a small, leather satchel she had pulled out from behind his seat until she produced a white bag that rattled with the telltale sound of pills. She tore the bag apart easily, yanking out the orange, plastic bottle within with jerky movements before uncapping it and tapping out two pills into her broad palm. She held out her hand to her partner, who refused to tear his gaze from where he had focused it on or through the passenger window.

“Just take them,” she demanded. “I know you're in pain.”

“You don't know anything,” he snapped in reply, but still refused to look her way.

With an eye roll that she knew he couldn't see, she bodily leaned over the console between them and grabbed his left shoulder. He visibly started at the force of the motion, but was unable to quickly school his expression before she caught sight of the wet tracks on his face.

She pulled her hand away as if scalded.

“Jaime-”

“Don't.”

She suddenly felt bereft of the pent-up frustration that had been building within her. His voice was firm, but also without the malice that had tinged his every word previously. The few he had bothered to uttered in her presence, at least.

That was a start, she supposed, only now realizing that he had been putting up a front.

She enclosed the pills in her palm into a loose fist. She slowly inhaled, held it, then let loose her breath before trying to speak. “You're right,” she chewed on her wide, lower lip. “I don't know anything. There's no way I can possibly know how you're feeling, but I _can_ see you're in pain. Please, just take them.”

He had hiked up his shoulder, as if he was subconsciously or possibly even _purposely_ trying to block the sight of her from his peripheral, but she could see that he was starting to waver. She thought that he would have maintained the cold shoulder if the pain wasn't so obviously writ in the tightness around his eyes, and the way he cradled his stump to his chest.

With a beleaguered sigh, he lowered his shoulder and awkwardly half-turned his still buckled body so that he could accept the offered pills with his left hand. Before she could grab the unopened bottle of water she had saved for him, he had tossed the white capsules into the back of his throat, and swallowed them with only a slight grimace at the chalky taste.

He swiped his tongue over his teeth, before turning to face the window again, seemingly content to stare through the glass as Brienne sighed and placed the torn remains of the prescription bag into her satchel. She placed the leather bag back behind his seat, started the car, and carefully pulled away from the side of the road with the soft _click-click-click _of the indicator the only sound.

It wasn't until they were more than halfway into their journey toward his apartment when she finally realized that his grumbled slur in the quiet space between them was a _thank you._

* * *

When Brienne finally pulled her car in front of Jaime's apartment building, dusk had turned the sky a dark mixture of orange and gray. The lampposts that lined the streets were few and far between; many just looming shafts of rusted metal thrusting out of broken sidewalks without purpose as their lights had long ago flickered out.

Once again, Brienne found herself wondering how someone with the family name of Lannister couldn't afford something much nicer than the city hovel Jaime had secluded himself in.

Banishing her curiosity, she made quick work of switching the ignition off, and exiting the vehicle before Jaime could even attempt to unbuckle himself. It seemed the painkillers were rendering his remaining limbs near useless as he tugged ineffectively at the strap. She grabbed the satchel from the backseat, slammed the door shut, and shouldered the leather bag as far up her arm as it would go before attempting to pull Jaime from his seat.

He grumbled in protest, although what he was protesting didn't seem to be evident, but allowed himself to be tugged out. From there, Brienne had to practically frog-march him up the walkway, and through the seemingly never-ending flight of stairs until they arrived at his number.

She unlocked the door and pushed him inside, nearly losing the bag on her shoulder to gravity. He frowned up at her in the darkness, his brows creased downward as he fumbled to steady himself in the dark. She flipped the light switch on the wall, and dumped her bag on the ground.

“Okay,” she placed her hands on her wide waist. “First order of business is to have you drink some water, then off to bed.”

He was either too tired or incapable of opening his eyes further than the slits they were. A frown still marred his handsome face as he asked, “What are you doing?”

She opened one of the cabinets in the tight-fitting kitchen, and pulled down a glass covered in fingerprints. She filled the glass fully from the tap, and thrust it into his hand.

“I'm keeping an eye on you. As I promised.”

Water sloshed over his wrist, soaking the sleeve of his dark red Henley as he faltered in his step.

“Promised whom? My brother?” His upper lip curled in a sneer, but his gaze was unfocused on the floor. “Your handler?”

She didn't answer. Instead, she gently tipped the bottom of the glass clenched in his hand up until he finally raised it to his lips and took several, deep gulps. He set the empty cup heavily atop the counter, and pushed himself away with a smack of his wet lips.

“Y'know, you don't have to pretend to care anymore.” He waved his stump in the air as he weaved down the short hall and into his bedroom. “I'm back home in, well-” He huffed out a wry laugh. “Not in one piece, but nothing to be done about that, is there?”

“I'm not pretending,” she called out softly, but he didn't appear to even be listening.

He stumbled as he started to toe off his unlaced boots, while reaching over his back with one hand and trying to pull his long-sleeved shirt over his head. He was a tangle of uncoordinated limbs for several seconds before she sighed heavily, and stepped forward.

“Oh, leave it!”

She grabbed the bottom of his shirt when he let it go, and tugged it up to his armpits before he lifted his arms straight into the air so that she could pull it the rest of the way off. His hair had been growing out on the back and sides of his head; now it was mussed up from the gathered static. He looked almost endearing, with his eyes barely opened and his mouth parted as he muzzily stared up at her.

Brienne opened her mouth, but she didn't know if it was to protest his earlier words or to argue against them or what she even wanted to say anymore. She was tired, and she was tired of feeling as if she was at fault for his current condition. She knew he felt betrayed, that he felt less like the lion he was born as and more like a sheep primed for the wolves.

She wished she could convince him that he wasn't a deliberate pawn in her investigation. That he was just an unfortunate casualty in the service of something bigger than themselves. She _had _to find a missing teenager. It was literally her field at the bureau, and this case was personal. She wished she knew how to express how sorry she was that he had to be involved.

He suddenly slumped forward, eyelids fluttering as he fought the inevitable urge to sleep. He hadn't had much rest during his time in the hospital; coma notwithstanding. She urged his lax body backward, trying her best to gently maneuver his still bruised frame toward his unmade bed, but despite her size he wasn't that much smaller than her. In fact, he was only an inch or so shorter than she, and at one point had at least ten pounds of muscle on her. Now, after a steady diet of hospital food, he had to weigh as much as her, if not less.

His nose settled into the crook of her neck. He took a deep breath, and nuzzled her flesh before she sharply pulled away. “I want to forgive you,” he murmured hotly against her freckled skin.

Brienne gently got him to lie back. He had already managed to get his boots off, but while she thought sleeping in jeans would be uncomfortable, she knew he wasn't wearing anything underneath. So, she simply tugged the comforter from underneath his slack body until it covered his bare torso.

“I want to, O'Tarth,” he said again. He closed his eyes. “I trusted you.”

Brienne swallowed the thick lump in her throat, and waited until he began to softly snore before allowing herself to pull away with tears clumping her lashes together. She resigned herself to a sleepless night on his tiny couch.

_He trusted you._

_ And you betrayed that trust._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC...  
Please Review.


	16. Chapter 16

**NOW:**

* * *

Brienne awoke with an undignified snort as an odd gulping noise filled the otherwise still air. It was quickly followed by a loud thump as something bodily fell to the carpeted floor. She winced as pain pierced her oddly craned neck, before she pushed herself up into a seated position from where she had fallen asleep on Jaime's couch.

“Jaime?”

She rubbed her aching neck, and muzzily blinked as her eyes slowly adjusted to the dark room. It was late, if the moonlight that filtered through the plastic slats of the apartment's sole window was anything to judge by, if not incredibly early in the morning. She twisted her body until she could place her feet on the floor, and leaned forward to see if she could make out Jaime's body in his bed.

The gulping noise continued, accompanied by the very clear sound of someone retching, and _that_ sound alone had Brienne moving faster than she believed she ever had in her entire life. She dove forward, covering the few feet between the couch and the bed, only to realize that the twisted mound atop it was the comforter and the man himself was on the floor.

He seemed to be struggling to push himself into an upright position; trying and failing to place his faltering weight on his maimed arm. With an ease that shocked her, Brienne managed to heft his body up into a kneeling position before placing her hands underneath his bare armpits and pulling him the rest of the way up to his feet. His right arm scrabbled uselessly at the small of her back. Drool pooled from his mouth, dripping onto the front of her shirt, as he continued to fight the nausea that was clearly intent on making him empty the contents of his stomach on the floor.

Brienne adjusted her grip, wrapping her arm around his narrow waist securely, before using their combined momentum to propel him forward and down the hall. Thankfully, the bathroom door was already ajar, and gave in swiftly when she kicked it the rest of the way open.

She had managed to flip the light switch in the bathroom, bathing them in bright, fluorescent light, just as he fell to his knees with an audible smack of flesh and bone against tile as he began to violently puke into the toilet. She pressed her back against the doorjamb, and winced as vomit splashed against porcelain.

“Fuck,” he groaned at long last. He had placed both arms on the rim of the toilet, haloing his head where he hung it over the water. His left hand shook in a spasm, and she wondered if he could still feel his missing right. He hacked a wad of spit into the water with a grimace.

“Are there any other symptoms?” Brienne questioned around a jaw-cracking yawn.

His eyes were creased at the corners, squeezed shut, but Brienne was unsure if that was from the pain that most assuredly had to be deriving from his bandaged stump or just his way of attempting to settle his swirling stomach. In reply, he grunted and worked his lower lip between his teeth as he scrunched up his nose.

“I'm a little lightheaded,” he finally admitted. He cracked opened one eye, pulled his head away from the toilet's opening, and reached up to pull the lever.

She disappeared from the doorway, and returned a moment later with an uncapped prescription bottle in one hand and a white pill in the other. She glanced down at the capsule resting in her broad palm and asked, “Do you think it's the Percocet?”

He pushed himself away from the toilet, and forlornly stared up at her from where he sat on the floor of his own bathroom. He offered a facile roll of his shoulders as if he hadn't just upchucked everything in his stomach. “Or just a side effect of being in a, oh I don't know, a coma?”

“Well,” Brienne huffed, “At least you didn't lose your wit.” She leaned down and handed him the pill, forgoing the water as he had done before, and watched with a sympathetic wince as he dry-swallowed it once again. Instead of an acerbic reply, as she had expected would come next, Jaime groaned around a poorly stifled belch.

“Pardon,” he grimaced. “I think that's it, though.” He deliberately widened his eyes, blinked hard once, and then gave his head a slight shake. “I'm good to stand.” He thrust out his left hand, and waggled his fingers. “Pull me up, O'Tarth. You're certainly strong enough.”

Brienne ignored the perceived slight, grasped his long fingers within her palm, and tugged him up in one motion. He stumbled through the momentum, his body colliding into her sturdier frame, but instead of pushing himself away he stilled and blinked up at her with decidedly clearer eyes.

“Brienne-”

“You should brush your teeth,” she quickly interrupted. His breath actually wasn't _that_ putrid, considering he had mostly been on a liquid diet, but it was warm and ghosting far too close to her face. She also had _no_ clue where he was going with whatever train of thought had him saying her name, but she didn't want to follow that track in the least.

He frowned, almost offended, but then he pulled away and reached for the lone toothbrush in its holder and proceeded to do as she suggested. When he finally finished, but not before an obnoxious gargling of water, he pulled his lips away from his teeth in a wide, mocking smile that didn't reach his eyes. “Better?”

“I'm not getting close enough to find out,” she replied before edging her way out of the bathroom and into the hallway/kitchen combo. As he scrubbed his face with a hand towel that was still hanging from its handle, she turned around and rifled through the cabinet that she now knew didn't contain glasses and plates. The highest shelf contained a slightly crumpled box of generic brand crackers. She pulled the box down, and pulled out the last package contained within.

“Those are expired,” Jaime announced at her shoulder.

She flipped the box she had just neatly broke down into a flat rectangle to look at the date. “So they are. They're still better than nothing.” She handed him the crackers as she retrieved the previously used glass, and refilled it. She went to also hand him that, when he cleared his throat pointedly, and she finally turned to look at him. He had the package of crackers pinched between the fingers of his left hand. “Oh. Sorry. Here.” She flushed and grabbed them back, tore them open, then handed him one.

He dutifully placed the entire square in his mouth, and snapped his teeth. Dry morsels flew in different directions; stale crumbs that now coated his thin lips and gathered at the corners of his mouth also collected in the coarse hairs of the light beard he had yet to shave. He slowly grabbed the glass, and sipped at the water, before audibly sloshing the cracker-paste in his mouth around to gather what had gummed at the back his molars, before he swallowed the salty concoction with a wry expression.

He placed the water back down atop the counter, the glass clinking, before he turned to face Brienne with his left hand outstretched for another.

Brienne, for her part, had watched him in equal parts disgust and bemusement.

“Are you deliberately acting like a child or has your brain been scrambled in the accident?”

At that, Jaime snorted derisively. “_Accident_.” He plucked the next proffered saltine from her hand, and shoved it into his mouth. “I would have put that word in air quotes,” he said around a mouthful of pale mush, “But, well, _one_ hand.”

“You could still do it with one hand,” she muttered and then instantly pinked under his suddenly keen gaze.

“I suppose you could,” he drawled before he suggestively tugged at the waistband of his undone jeans. “Speaking of which, one thing I cannot do is remove these without a helpinghand.”

Brienne flushed bright red at the implication.

_At least he's making jokes_.

She swallowed the lump in her throat.

_I think_.

His lips quirked with only the slightest of upticks.

“I mean they're a bit uncomfortable to sleep in.”

“But you're not wearing anything underneath,” she protested weakly.

He raised both brows, and nodded with an exaggerated bob of his head at her as if she was deliberately being obtuse. “This is true, but-” His expression melted into something softer; vulnerable. “I still need help.”

His voice only faltered slightly, but it was enough to strike Brienne as genuine. She relented with a deep, resigned sigh and a dip of her chin. She handed him another cracker before placing the opened package on the counter. She could hear the plastic rustle as he grabbed another while she made her way toward the couch, and settled herself on the edge of the cushions. He appeared in front of her a moment later, his jaw working around the dry saltines and his pale, taut stomach undulating as he swallowed.

The relative quiet of the apartment was punctured by the crunching sounds emanating from his, thankfully, closed mouth before he finally ingested the last of it and was blessedly quiet for once in his life. She stared at the undone waistband of his jeans, and released a shaky breath that she didn't realize she was holding.

_You're an employee of the FBI, _she scolded herself. _Get yourself together!_

She stared at the surprisingly sparse trail of darker hair on his lower abdomen, before skating her eyes over the worryingly prominent ribs that marked his recent weight loss, and up further to the light smattering of grayer hair that covered his upper chest. When her blue eyes finally met his half-lidded gaze, she frowned and subconsciously brought in her lower lip with her teeth and bit into it.

“Did I pass muster?”

His voice was soft; languid around the consonants but his darker eyes held a distinctive sharpness that dissolved as Brienne brought a hand up and ghosted it over his ribs. His bruised skin erupted in gooseflesh; she snatched her hand back. “You've lost a lot of weight.”

He simply _hm'd_ as he drew his brow together.

Without a reaction to counter, Brienne firmly grasped a belt loop on either side of his jeans and twisted his trim waist until he stumbled over his own bare feet. He seemed to belatedly realize she was turning him to face away from her. He complied silently, seemingly deep in thought, as she began to pull the denim down in quick, firm tugs. Within a quietly strained moment, and an awkward beat where his foot got caught in the bunched up fabric, he stepped free and sluggishly covered the scant distance toward the closet. He missed the knob once, before he finally tugged it open and used the door to shield his body from her blatantly concerned gaze. He pulled down a fleece pair of sweatpants before walking backward toward the couch.

The sudden presence of her fingertips were like five fire irons branding themselves against the unexpectedly sweat-slicked skin at the small of his back. He froze in alarm, loosening his grip on the fleece when she gently prised his fingers from them. He could hear her manipulating the fabric, and situating them at his ankles so that he could step back into them, but he could also hear the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears and her steady, even breathing caressing his warm skin; and the moonlight was piercing his eyes even though it was barely filtering into the apartment-

“Are you okay?”

Jaime blinked and found Brienne standing in front of him, impossibly tall and magnificent in the pale light, and he felt his lips twitching as they widened into a dazed smile.

“M'fine.”

“I think the drugs are kicking in,” she said after a lengthy pause.

“Are my pants on?”

She gave him a hesitant nod in the affirmative, worry creasing her brow, but her blue eyes appeared to twinkle in amusement. Or were those literal stars he was seeing?

“Then take me to bed, O'_Tarth_.”

The blush that painted her cheeks red was a delightful sight.

Brienne stepped to the side, and let him totter the few paces forward before he face-planted atop the bunched up comforter with a grunt. He could hear her sigh, a soft _hffooo_ that he could have sworn tickled the hairs at the nape of his neck. The comforter underneath his slack weight shifted and moved until Brienne was able to pull enough of it out and drape it over him.

She pulled away.

“Stay.”

Her hand hovered over his bare shoulder hesitantly. “I- What?”

He turned his head up, eyes still closed but without the tightness around the edges. “The couch is small and uncomfortable. Just stay.” He lowered his head back into the crook of his arm. “Don't make it weird,” he muttered.

The bed dipped slightly and settled, and Jaime fell into a pleasantly drug-induced sleep with the warmth of Brienne's arm brushing against his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC...  
Please Review.


	17. Chapter 17

**NOW:**

* * *

“Why are you still here?”

The question startled Brienne as she let herself into Jaime's darkened apartment. She froze; one hand still on the spare key Tyrion had made for her, and the other clutching a handful of plastic bags full of groceries. She relaxed her broad shoulders, fully entered the apartment, and flicked the light switch. It sputtered above her twice before fully illuminating the space to reveal Jaime sitting on the gray couch, facing his bed and mouthing the filter of an unlit cigarette.

She set the bags down against the wall with a frown. “I could ask the same of you.” She looked down at the watch adorning her left wrist, the navy blue nylon band snug against her skin. “You should be with your physical therapist.”

There was a low sound in the back of his throat, and Brienne recognized it for the snort of derision it was. The frown on her face deepened as she stepped further in. She paused, lifted her head up a little higher, and inhaled deeply. The apartment smelled musky, a heady mixture of perspiration and an unidentifiable sweetness that struck her as familiar.

She glanced at her former partner. He sat facing forward, bare chest a mottled mixture of yellowish-green bruises, and clad only in a pair of unbuttoned worn denim. He had both feet bare and planted firmly on the ground, his elbows resting on his thighs as he leaned forward and seemingly glared at his unmade bed. The cigarette was dangerously close to falling from his partially parted lips.

She found herself standing next to him, taking in the scene before her with an embarrassed flush that rivaled the reddened tips of his ears. The bed was indeed unmade, which wasn't any great surprise, but the opened bottle of lube on the end stand was. She gulped and glanced askance at Jaime.

“I wanted to feel-” He cut himself off with a frustrated huff. “Something. _Anything_.” There was a desperate tinge to his gruff voice. He lifted his left hand, spreading his long fingers wide as he examined the appendage with discernible loathing. “It's not the same.”

He slowly closed his fingers until his hand was a clenched, white-knuckled fist. He lowered it, placed it between his knees, before he tilted his head to the side and asked again: “Why are you still here?” He slowly turned so that he faced her. “You're not my mother. _Certainly_ not my wife. _Why_ are you still _here_?”

Brienne carefully took in his form; his blond hair had darkened as it grew out, and was long enough for visible furrows from where he had clearly raked his fingers through the strands. His deep blue eyes were narrowed slits as they took her looming form in. When she met his glower with a soft gaze, his jaw seized up tightly in clenched frustration.

“I'm your partner,” she finally managed. Her eyes darted to his end stand before she caught herself and averted them back to his rosy-cheeked face. The beard adorning his jaw glittered blond and silver as he jut his chin out.

“Are you?” His nostrils flared.

“I'm your friend.”

She watched as his eyes shuttered, before he inhaled slowly, deeply and turned his face away again. His left hand moved from between his legs to grab at something on the couch beside him. He lifted the item, a lighter, and placed it at the end of his cigarette. His hand trembled minutely as he tried and failed to ignite the cheap plastic. He was clearly as ill-practiced at this task as he was at what he had been trying to do earlier.

_Don't think about it, _she scolded herself.

Brienne swallowed thickly, leaned forward, and gently prised the lighter from his grip. He froze as her fingers touched his hand, the hand he had used as he tried and failed to pleasure himself, but relented and allowed her to deftly flick the switch. He met her eyes as he canted his head to the side, sucked deeply until the cherry was burning as bright red as her cheeks, and sat back.

“You should quit,” she said softly, unable to maintain his penetrative gaze.

“Why?” It was almost a snarl, but the vehemence seemed to be seeping from his body with every deep drag of the cigarette he pulled. “It's not like I need to be fit for duty anymore.”

“But you need to be a fit father.” She took a half-step back as he quickly snapped his head up. She forged on. “You may not want to hear it, Lannister, but those kids need you. They need their father, and deny it all you want, that's you.”

He worked his jaw, teeth silently gnashing together as he took her in, before he finally lowered his gaze to the floor. “Jaime.”

She blinked down at him. “What?”

“She-” His lips twitched. “Cersei. She always called me brother or-or lover. She never called me by my name.” He swept his eyes up, a challenge in the dark orbs as he fiercely added: “I loved her.”

“I know.”

_I don't. I don't understand._

He must have read her thoughts on her face because a grimace of a smile pulled at his lips. “You don't.” He took a deep drag. “That's okay.”

Smoke encompassed his face in lazy white wisps that emitted from his nostrils, and curled downward around his pushed out chin. “You don't need to be here anymore.” He took another deep pull of the cigarette, the ash weighing heavily at the end and threatening to fall off, before he plucked it from his lip and willfully tapped it over the floor.

Brienne felt her brow furrow at the deliberate act.

“I never _needed _to be here, Jaime,” she said softly, “I just wanted to help.”

“It's been, what, two weeks? I think it's time you went back-”

_To wherever it is you came from, _he bitterly thought.

“I can't imagine _they're _paying for whatever hotel you've been shacking up in,” he continued around another puff of smoke. “So, save yourself whatever money you have left, and just go.”

Brienne felt her face contort through litany of expressions; hurt and concern chief among them. She wanted to reach out and place a hand on his exposed shoulder, to let him feel the warmth of her palm and have him know that she felt just as warm inside for him. She didn't know when she had started to care, _truly_ care, about him. Of course, the injury was an excuse to stay and lend aid, but the man seemed to be in desperate need for some human attention.

She could only imagine when he last felt any sort of human decency. His co-workers avoided him like the plague, whispering Kingslayer behind his back, while his family tried to control his every movement and whispered poison in his ears.

Brienne looked down at her own jean-clad legs, and fiddled with a loose piece of string sprouting from the seam on her thigh. She wanted to shake her head no, to shake _him_, but instead she offered a lone nod that she didn't even know if he could see.

“Okay,” she simply said. “Your brother wanted to have us over for dinner tonight.” She wound the string tightly around her index finger. “After, if you still want me to leave, I will.” Her finger throbbed as she awaited his reply. She had meant to tell him about the dinner earlier that morning, but the thought had fell to the wayside when she had to rouse him from another Percocet induced sleep.

Jaime lifted his eyes to the ceiling, as if trying to summon God himself, but when his Holiness didn't appear he flicked his gaze over to Brienne's face and sighed. “Fine. One dinner. Then you leave.”

The string snapped.

“Okay.” She turned on her heel, a well executed about-face, and began to rummage through the plastic bags. She had managed to unpack and put away a good portion off the food when a sharp cry startled her. She turned and quickly rushed to Jaime's side, where he was cradling his maimed arm to his chest. The cigarette fell from his lips as he tried to curl further into himself. “Jaime? Jaime, what's wrong? What is it?”

She brought down the heel of her sneaker on the cigarette, and knelt by his side.

“It's nothing,” he wheezed. “Just felt like like it was burning for a moment. It's fine now.”

She went to reach for his arm, but he pulled it away with an air of wariness.

“It's fine.”

“Has that happened before?”

Jaime shook his head. He had lowered his eyes back to the floor, but rather than affecting his usual air of disdain and gloom, he looked ashamed at this newfound perceived weakness. His left hand lightly pressed his right arm against his chest. His fingers gently massaged at the scar-laced skin, almost against his volition.

Brienne didn't think he was aware of the motion.

“What time is the dinner?” He asked after a time.

She cleared her throat, feeling unmoored and helpless against this new threat to his health. “It was supposed to be after I picked you up from your appointment.” She was careful to keep the reproach from her voice. “If you're still feeling up to it, I can finish putting away the food while you get ready, then I can let Tyrion know we'll be on our way.” She didn't miss how his blank eyes narrowed when she had said if he was feeling up to it, but he seemed to be nodding along as she spoke.

“Okay,” he said before he pushed himself up off the couch. “I'll go do that.”

Brienne watched him as he entered the bathroom, and closed the door behind himself without another word. With a deep exhale, she could do nothing more but as she said she would, and just wait until he was ready.

_He doesn't know._

_ They'll be there._

_ I hope he's ready to face them._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC...  
Please Review.


	18. Chapter 18

**NOW:**

* * *

Tyrion's home was obnoxiously large for a man living alone, and of his diminutive stature. After knocking soundly on the front door for the third time in just as many minutes, Brienne had then spent several seconds staring up, slack-jawed, at a gold and crimson brocade that hung from a second-story window directly above their heads. The thick tapestry flicked and billowed in a vigorous breeze; a gold, rampant lion, woven directly in the center, snarled down at all who dared approach this particular house.

"Hear me roar," Jaime gravely stated as he raised his eyes to take in the familiar sigil. He lowered them again, to the scar-puckered stump at the end of his right arm, and let loose a deep sigh.

"Indeed," Brienne said with wide eyes.

Before either one could utter another word, the front door swung open to reveal a fashionably disheveled Tyrion. He held the door open wider and beamed up at his dour-faced, crippled brother and his immensely tall, self-appointed caregiver.

"Brother!"

"Jaime," Brienne quickly cut in as they stepped into the foyer.

"Jaime!" Tyrion corrected without missing a beat. "And Brienne! Please, come in! Come in!" They were already inside the house, standing awkwardly within the blessedly warm vestibule before he noticed and shut the door behind them. "Welcome to my humble abode, Brienne."

"Thank you," she offhandedly replied as she chanced a look toward Jaime. He seemed to be taking in the plethora of various potted plants with a slight, dazed frown. Brienne herself had to side-step one that appeared to be encroaching the main door frame, lest it smacked her directly in the face. Jaime, however, reached out and gingerly touched the leaf of one particularly monstrous one with the tip of his index finger. "I never took you for a botanist," he said with a lackadaisical drawl.

Tyrion flapped a hand at the immense greenery. "_Moi_? No, no, no. I have quite the black thumb, broth- Jaime," he hastily revised mid-sentence at Brienne's pointed raise of a brow. He narrowed his eyes questioningly, but the slight shake of her head indicated it was something she would fill him in on later. He detested being the one left in the dark. However, with a lingering accusatory look in Brienne's direction, he continued, "Shae, on the other hand-"

The end of that particular thread hung in the air as a long-haired, doe-eyed woman appeared from the end of the elongated hallway and joined them in the now decidedly smaller foyer.

"Speak of the woman, and the woman shall appear. Love," the dwarf visibly melted under her affectionate smile, "Shae, this is my brother Jaime, and his _friend_ Brienne."

Brienne shot him a good-natured glare at the audibly emphasized term.

"Pleasure," Shae greeted with a relaxed smile. She turned back to Tyrion, bent at the waist to place a kiss on his cheek, then straightened back up. "I'll be back before their bedtime." Her dark eyes twinkled as she faced the very confused Jaime, and uncomfortably awkward Brienne. "I hope you enjoy your dinner."

_I guess he's not so alone then_, Brienne thought as the exotic brunette exited the house with only the smell of homemade macaroons the only indication she was ever there.

Tyrion immediately lifted his shaggy-haired head to gauge his elder brother's reaction. Jaime merely peered down at his sibling, the barest hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. It was the closest thing to happiness that he had exuded in the past few weeks, and it made Brienne's heart thump painfully against her rib cage. She hoped that the surprise she and Tyrion had arranged for him only lifted his decidedly low spirits higher.

The smaller of the two men wagged his finger, and Jaime ducked his head at the motion, his eyes glimmering with something other than contempt.

"I'm happy for you," Jaime said with a nonchalant shrug before he strode down the hallway and disappeared around a corner.

Tyrion craned his head up to look at Brienne. He perked a dark brow, and asked in his unusually deep voice, "Will you care to explain why I can no longer call my brother, _brother_?"

"Cersei," Brienne said by of explanation.

"Ah." He sighed and nodded. "Are you ready?"

She offered a weak smile. "Are you?"

He lifted his arm in the direction of his brother. "After you, Miss Brienne."

She inclined her head and followed the route the taller blond had taken. Just as she rounded the same corner, however, she pulled up short at the scene before her. She had expected it, had even initially conceived the plan herself before asking Tyrion for his permission, but she hadn't expected it to happen this early into the evening.

Jaime, in the center of a lavishly decorated living room, stood struck dumb at the sight of the two beaming blonds standing before him. His thin lips were parted, and his eyes fiercely bright, as he could seem to do nothing but gape. Brienne did not miss the fact that he had his shortened arm tucked at the small of his back.

"Tommen," Jaime hoarsely managed after a lengthy pause. He swallowed thickly. "Myrcella. What are you doing here?" He immediately frowned and ducked his head with a small shake. He raised his left arm, eyes still lowered, and said in a voice strangled with emotion: "Come here."

The two nearly flew across the room, long legs crossing the distance within seconds, before they crashed their lithe bodies into Jaime's trembling form. He staggered back, one foot falling behind the other, as he ducked his head into the golden ringlets of Myrcella's hair.

Brienne watched, with eyes misted with emotion, as Jaime pressed a chaste kiss against Myrcella's forehead before doing the same to Tommen's temple. His right arm was noticeably held away from them, but his left arm was wrapped tightly around Tommen's shaking frame.

"I'm so sorry," he murmured, alternating between pressing his forehead against theirs and pressing his lips against their temples. "I'm so, so sorry." His face was creased with anguish as he continued to shower them with the love and affection he had been refused to allow the entirety of their lives.

_I'm sorry for never being there._

_I'm sorry for your loss._

_I'm sorry this was the hand you were dealt with. _

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry._

It was another several minutes before Tommen's body-wracking sobs, and Myrcella's sniffling quieted; before Jaime pulled away with eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. He gruffly cleared his throat, trying and failing to dislodge the painful lump there, before he looked back and forth between the pair as if he were unsure they were indeed there.

"Uncle Tyrion said we could stay with him," Tommen explained in a voice not unpleasantly high; it was a voice still soft with youth, although the boy was now in high school.

It made Jaime realize how long it had been since he had last seen his niece and nephew.

_His children_, Brienne thought in wonder as she took in the golden trio. She had hung in the background, unsure whether or not she should stay, but equally unable to tear herself away from the sight. _He can finally be a father to his children._

"Joffrey wants to come home," Myrcella quietly said. She averted her blue eyes, her _father's_ eyes, to the carpeted floor. "Grandfather said he should stay abroad, finish up his studies, but he wants to come back." She lifted her steely gaze to meet Jaime's. "We don't want him to."

Jaime swallowed under the intensity of her gaze but shook his head in regret. "I don't think we could stop him if he did," he replied softly, "He's a man grown now. But-" Jaime flicked his eyes over to Tyrion, who had remained at the end of the hallway as father greeted children. "This is Uncle Tyrion's home, so if he isn't welcome here, then he isn't welcome here. You'll be safe." He bent his knees to meet Tommen's worried eyes. "I promise."

After a beat of silence, the younger man nodded.

There was a sudden, abrupt clap that startled the group. Tyrion, with an apologetic wince at having interrupted the moment, gestured toward an open entryway at the opposite side of the room. "I'm starving!" He announced with only the slightest hitch in his voice. "How about we move this joyful reunion to the dining room, and commence with the feasting part of this party?"

The willowy siblings reluctantly extracted themselves from Jaime's embrace and left the adults behind. Jaime touched his chest with his chin, willing the quiver threatening it to stop before he turned to his little brother and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Thank you," he said softly, fiercely.

Tyrion placed his right hand atop his brother's left and patted it gently.

"Don't thank me, Jaime. It was entirely Brienne's idea."

He followed after the children, leaving Jaime stunned as he turned toward his former partner.

Brienne simply offered him a tender-hearted smile.

Her heart near burst from her chest when he returned it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC...  
Please Review.


	19. Chapter 19

**NOW:**

* * *

Jaime found himself seated on one side of a dining table made of smooth, black oak. He glanced down at his lap before he flicked his half-hooded gaze to the young man seated across from him. Tommen rhythmically pulled his lower lip in and out with his teeth before he gnawed on it. The light-haired teenager repeated the nervous tic as his blue eyes darted between Jaime and Brienne as she bustled about.

Myrcella, however, didn't seem to be afflicted with the same anxiousness that her brother was visibly consumed with. Instead, she had placed her slender arms atop the table and rested her red-rimmed eyes upon Jaime's face. Her piercing gaze was resolute as she seemed to quietly take him in, studying him as fixedly as Tyrion would a newfound tome.

The young woman before him, _so _much like Cersei that it sent a visceral chill down Jaime's spine said nothing as her scrutinizing blue eyes swept from the silver creeping in at his temples to the dark beard adorning his squared jaw. She tilted her head to the side, her golden tresses flowing naturally over her shoulder with the movement, and Jaime was arrested at the sight.

_ Robert knew._

_ Does _she _know too?_

Jaime cut his eyes to the side as he cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably under her heavy appraisal. He placed his shortened arm on his lap, keeping it firmly from her view, just as Brienne slid into the seat to the left of him. He glanced askance at her, his partner, his _friend_, and felt the corner of his lip twitch upward into a small smile despite himself.

_ She did this for me. She brought them here so that I could see myself that they were okay._

_ That they are safe._

_ Alive._

_ She did this for me_.

She tentatively reflected his smile as she placed a ceramic plate full of a heaping pile of mashed potatoes, steamed carrots, and creamed corn in front of him. On the opposite side of the many accompaniments, a large piece of strip steak still sizzled delectably. He looked down at the slab of meat, his mouth-watering before he looked further down toward his arm.

His smile faltered.

_ My favorite meal and I can't even enjoy it._

Brienne leaned into his side, slightly startling him before he realized she was reaching for his plate and tugging it back toward her. He furrowed his brow, confused before understanding began to dawn as he watched her silently cut up the steak into bite-sized pieces. When she pushed the plate back toward him, he placed his left hand over hers before she could pull away, and before he could even decide what he meant by the gesture.

He opened his mouth, working his lips as he fought to get the words out, but snapped it closed again when her face softened as she realized he was trying and failing to thank her. She carefully removed her hand before she placed it atop of his; she risked a gentle swipe of her thumb over his skin.

“Anytime, Jaime.”

_Jaime._

His name.

_ His _name.

Not _brother _or _lover,_ but his name.

He lowered his head, tears threatening to return to his already aching eyes, but the return of Tyrion spared him the embarrassment. The smaller man placed two similar plates before the younger set of Lannister siblings, scurried back into the adjourning room, then returned with his full plate. He set his meal down, climbed atop his seat at the head of the table, and grinned at the others.

“Well?” He quirked a thick brow and huffed softly in laughter. “Dig in, dig in!”

Tommen and Myrcella eagerly grasped their cutlery and dove into their plates, presumably unused to a genuinely home-cooked meal, while Brienne placed a final pat atop Jaime's hand before she pulled away to enjoy her dinner too. Jaime swallowed thickly around the lump of emotion lodged in his throat, then grabbed his fork before stabbing at a thick chunk of steak.

Tyrion peered at his brother from underneath a lowered brow. He chewed slowly before he pushed the food in his mouth toward the inside of his cheek, and announced that they needed music.

“Uncle Tyrion!” Myrcella scolded. “Not with your mouth full.”

He waved a hand at her dismissively as he leaned to the side and pulled a cellphone from the front pocket of his pants. He awkwardly fumbled with the motion before he jabbed at the screen for a few moments. The room was soon filled with a soft instrumental piece.

“I don't like Pop music,” Tommen said with a wrinkled nose as he cut into his steak.

“Actually,” Myrcella interjected, “This song is considered Soul.”

Tyrion popped a piece of steak into his mouth and tilted his head to the side. After a beat of listening to the music, he said, “I can see both. Who is this by again?”

The leading tone in his brother's voice caused Jaime to falter in his chewing. He perked a brow as Myrcella blushed and ducked her head.

_Interesting._

“You played it,” Tommen muttered.

“It's Sam Smith. Well, the original is Sam Smith. You know who _this _one is by.” She offered Tyrion a pleased grin that he returned with a playful wink.

The trio continued their semi-argumentative conversation for several moments, allowing Jaime to focus solely on the next bite of his meal instead of having to participate until he felt the heaviness of multiple eyes resting on him. He looked up, the fork hovering above his parted lips, as Brienne cleared her throat awkwardly.

“I'm sorry?”

“I asked what you thought of the song.”

The fact that Myrcella pointedly refused to address him by his first name, or even bother to use the term “uncle” as she did with Tyrion, did not go unnoticed by Jaime. He shifted uncomfortably at the implications that errant thought produced as the others continued to stare at him patiently.

"I like it," he finally admitted, although it wasn't entirely his type of music generally.

It was the correct thing to say, as Myrcella sat up straighter and brightened.

“I'm second chair in the orchestra.”

Jaime blinked.

He didn't understand the correlation, and looked at her with raised brows as if to say _Okay...and?_

“That's my High School orchestra playing.” She motioned vaguely toward where the speakers doubtlessly were. “I play the violin.”

He hadn't known she played an instrument. He looked at her, then flicked his eyes over to Tommen, then back again. He didn't know much about her at all, come to think of it - either of them.

Myrcella's grin slowly faltered, and she looked down at her plate of food. She pushed her potatoes around. “I wish I could bring them all to my audition.”

He finally had the good grace to ingratiate himself into the conversation. “Audition?”

“Myrcella has an audition with Julliard next fall,” Tyrion crowed with a raised glass of wine.

The blond teenager, no _woman, _blushed at the exclamation.

Jaime could only help but feel astounded. “Myrcy,” he exhaled, “that's _amazing _news. Congratulations!”

"Thank you," she murmured with a hesitant smile. Jaime returned it quickly, and he thought that it might have been the first time he had been able to do so without pretense in a very long time. "I'd like to play for you one day, Jaime. Would," she faltered, steeled herself, and pressed on, "Would you like that?"

The lump of emotion that had melted away before abruptly appeared again. The offer itself was a kindness that he was unused to, but the fact that she finally said his name had him nearly coming undone before them.

He offered her a teary-eyed smile and inclined his head in the affirmative.

“I would like that very much.”

The young woman visibly preened and seemed to dive back into her meal with a renewed gusto. Jaime couldn't contain his smile at the sight before him: his son and daughter, sitting side-by-side, laughing and chatting animatedly as if their lives were never once tainted by darkness.

Or hatred.

Or sin.

Jaime blinked hard, willing the image of his beautiful children so happy and healthy to be burned into the back of his mind lest he ever forgets. He felt in a daze, a floating specter in an alternate dimension of _This Could Be Your Life._ It didn't feel real.

It felt perfect.

And then reality struck him:

“Can we see it, Uncle Jaime?”

“Tommen!” Myrcella chided her brother in wide-eyed alarm.

Jaime felt his eyes flit between the two blondes, could feel Brienne's concerned presence next to him, before he finally relented with a dip of his head. He brought his arm up, pulled the sleeve of the hunter green sweatshirt up to his elbow. It would have usually taken an effort, maybe a firm tug or two to loosen the snug cuff from his wrist, but despite having gained a few pounds since his return home, he was a far cry from his previously substantial weight.

The room felt devoid of sound. He felt his face flush, and his ears ring, a captive of their unshakable judgment. Then Myrcella, sweet, sweet Myrcy, looked up and met his eyes with her mother's own and simply said: "It's just an arm missing a hand."

She went back to her meal as if that was that.

Dumbfounded, Jaime sat back in his seat and wordlessly turned to look at Brienne.

She simply stared back, her guileless blue eyes softened at his slack-jawed expression.

"Close your mouth, Jaime," she instructed gently.

He snapped his mouth closed, unaware that it was hanging open before he dipped his head.

"Thank you."

Brienne smiled, wide-lipped and genuine, but beautiful in its uniqueness.

"_No_, no, I mean it. Thank you."

"I know, Jaime. I know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit: framboise gave me permission to use the line "it's just an arm missing a hand" from his/her story titled "Rightly, wrong, here we are" [sic.] 
> 
> I apologize for how late this is. I'm sure you're all aware of the craziness that's happening out in the world right now. I'm dealing with a lot of other things on top of that. Stay safe and healthy, my friends. 
> 
> TBC...  
Please Review.

**Author's Note:**

> TBC...  
Please Review.


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